SONGS  OP  DOGS 


M    I 


SONGS  OF  DOGS 


SONGS  OF  DOGS,  AN  ANTHOLOGY 
SELECTED  AND  ARRANGED  BY 
ROBERT  FROTHINGHAM 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

THE  RIVERSIDE  PRESS  CAMBRIDGE 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,    1920,   BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


THIS  LITTLE  BOOK  IS 
LOVINGLY  DEDICATED 
TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

"SKIPPER" 

AN    IRISH  TERRIER  OF  PARTS 
WHO  DEARLY  LOVED  HIS  FOLKS 


550930 


FOREWORD 


HAS  the  dog  a  soul  and  does  it  attain  immortality? 
Let  those  who  have  lost  beloved  pets  answer. 
Surely,  if  ever  the  wish  were  father  to  the  thought, 
it  is  here.  The  uncompromising  frankness  and  the 
pathos  of  Mr.  Galsworthy's  "Memories"  alone 
will  plumb  the  depths  of  emotion  in  all  dog-lovers, 
And  it  may  be  remarked  that  this  little  book  is  in- 
tended for  them  above  all  others. 

Beyond  all  peradventure,  the  dog  represents 
man's  greatest  conquest  over  the  brute  creation, 
in  which  his  great  reward  has  been  a  four-footed 
love  so  wonderful,  so  almost  divine  in  its  charac- 
ter, that  he  cannot  bring  himself  to  believe  in  its 
extinction  — 

"  Else  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 
This  longing  after  immortality?  " 

He  (or  was  it  she?)  was  something  more  than  a 
cynical  epigrammatist  who  said,  "  The  more  I  see  of 
men,  the  better  I  like  dogs."  And  it  may  not  be 
venturing  too  much  to  say  that  the  Darwinian  The- 
ory might  be  easier  of  assimilation  if  presented  in 
canine  habiliments. 

Our  kinship  with  the  beasts  of  the  field  is  stoutly 
maintained  by  some  of  our  most  gifted  writers  of 
wild  animal  life  who  are  neither  Buddhists  nor  in- 
terested in  the  doctrine  of  Reincarnation.  What- 


viii  FOREWORD 


ever  our  opinions,  however,  none  of  us  will  be  in- 
clined to  take  issue  with  the  challenge  put  forth  by 
Albert  Pay  son  Terhune  in  connection  with  the  epi- 
taph written  for  his  famous  collie,  "  Lad,"  which 
may  be  found  within: 

"  Some  people  are  wise  enough  to  know  that  a 
dog  has  no  soul.  These  will  find  ample  theme  for 
mirth  in  our  foolish  inscription.  But  no  one  who 
knew  Lad  will  laugh  at  it." 

E.  F. 
New  York 
October,  1920 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


THE  editor  acknowledges  his  indebtedness  to  the 
following  authors  and  publishers  for  the  use  of 
copyright  poems : 

Messrs.  Boni  &  Liveright  for  "  Good  Dogs,"  by 
Baudelaire. 

The  Century  Company  for  "Frances,"  from 
Ashes  and  Sparks,  by  Richard  Wightman. 

Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.  and  Mr.  Rud- 
yard  Kipling  for  "  The  Power  of  the  Dog,"  from 
Mr.  Kipling's  Collected  Verse. 

Messrs.  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.  for  the  following 
poems  taken  by  permission:  "The  War  Dog,"  from 
the  volume  by  that  title,  by  Edward  Peple;  "Lad- 
die," "Vigi,"  and  "To  Sigurd,"  from  Sigurd  — 
Our  Golden  Collie,  by  Katharine  Lee  Bates,  copy- 
right, 1919;  "  Lad's  Epitaph,"  from  Lad  —  A  Dog, 
by  Albert  Payson  Terhune,  copyright,  1919. 

The  Field  and  Fancy  Publishing  Co.  for  "  Be- 
hind the  Muzzle,"  "  His  Good  Points,"  and  "The 
Joy  of  Pedigree,"  by  W.  Livingston  Larned;  and 
"  Laddie's  Long  Sleep,"  by  James  Clarence  Harvey. 

Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers  for  "  The  Road  to 
Vagabondia,"  from  Poems,  by  Dana  Burnet,  copy- 
right, 1915. 

Messrs.  Houghton  Mifflin  Company  for  "  The 
Unfailing,"  from  Harvest  Moon,  and  "  Ode  on  the 
Dog,"  from  The  Book  of  the  Little  Past,  by  Jose- 
phine Preston  Peabody ;  "  The  Old  Sheep  Wagon," 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


from  Out  where  the  West  Begins,  by  Arthur  Chap- 
man; "The  Vagabonds,"  by  J.  T.  Trowbridge; 
"  The  Outcast"  and  "  Chance,"  from  Riders  of  the 
Stars,  and  "  The  Dog-Star  Pup  "  and  "  The  Lost 
Trail,"  from  Songs  of  the  Trail,  by  Henry  Herbert 
Knibbs. 

Mr.  Mitchell  Kennerley  for  "  The  Ould  Hound," 
from  Irish  Poems,  by  Arthur  Stringer. 

Messrs.  John  Lane  &  Co.  for  "  Fidele's  Grassy 
Tomb,"  from  The  Island  Race,  by  Henry  Newbolt; 
"  Ave  Caesar  "  and  "  The  Bath,"  from  The  Vaga- 
bonds, by  R.  C.  Lehmann. 

Life  Publishing  Co.  for  "  To  a  Little  Deaf  Dog," 
by  Ethellyn  Brewer  DeFoe. 

Messrs.  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Company  for 
"  Faithful  Follower,  Gentle  Friend,"  from  Memorial 
Day  and  Other  Poems,  by  Richard  Burton. 

The  Macmillan  Company  for  "Geisfs  Grave," 
by  Matthew  Arnold. 

Mr.  David  McKay  for  "  Tim  —  An  Irish  Ter- 
rier," from  Poems  from  Leinster,  by  Winifred  M. 
Letts, 

Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  for  "  Rhapsody 
on  a  Dog's  Intelligence,"  and  "  Remarks  To  My 
Grown-Up  Pup,"  from  Rhymes  of  Home,  by  Burges 
Johnson. 

Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  "To  My 
Dog  Blanco,"  by  Dr.  J.  G.  Holland;  "  His  Vanished 
Master,"  from  Songs  and  Poems,  by  John  J.  Chap- 
man; "Abandonment,"  from  Moods,  Songs  and 
Doggerels,  and  "  Memories,"  from  The  Inn  of 
Tranquillity,  by  John  Galsworthy,  copyright,  1912. 

Messrs.  James  T.  White  &  Co.  for  "  The  Re- 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xi 

proach,"  from  City  Pastorals  and  Other  Poems,  by 
William  Griffith. 

American  Magazine  for  "  Frenchie,"  by  Ser- 
geant Frank  D.  McCarthy,  A.E.F. 

Baily's  Magazine  (London)  for  "  Walking  a 
Puppy,"  by  Will  H.  Ogilvie. 

Blackwood's  Magazine  for  "  To  Rufus  —  A 
Spaniel,"  by  R.  C.  Lehmann. 

Boston  Transcript  for  "  Cluny,"  by  Rt.  Rev. 
William  Croswell  Doane;  "Roger  and  I,"  by  Rev. 
Julian  S.  Cutler. 

Century  Magazine  for  "  Davy,"  by  Louise  Imo- 
gen Guiney;  and  "  Without  are  Dogs,"  by  Edward 
A.'  Church. 

Country  Gentleman  for  "To  John — My  Col- 
lie," by  Walter  Peirce. 

London  Spectator  for  "  Hamish  —  A  Scotch 
Terrier,"  by  C.  Hilton  Brown. 

New  York  Sun  for  "  Frost  -—  My  Bull  Terrier," 
by  Wex  Jones. 

Outing  Magazine  for  "  You're  a  Dog,"  by  C.  L. 
Gilman;  and  "  The  End  of  the  Season,"  by  W.  G. 
Tinckom-Fernandez. 

Philadelphia  Public  Ledger  for  "  To  a  Puppy," 
by  Lewette  Beauchamp  Pollock. 

Poetry  —  A  Magazine  of  Verse  for  "  Bess,"  by 
Orrick  Johns. 

Punch  for  "  Dandie  Dinmonts,"  by  Will  H.  Ogil- 
vie; "Sir  Bat-Ears,"  by  Mrs.  Parry  Eden;  "To 
Towser,"  by  Cyril  Bretherton;  and  "To  a  Dachs- 
hound,"  by  E.  T.  Hopkins. 

St.  Nicholas  Magazine  for  "  I  've  Got  a  Dog,"  by 
Ethel  M.  Kelley. 


xii  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Scribner's  Magazine  for  "  In  the  Mansion 
Yard,"  by  William  Hervey  Woods. 

Westminster  Gazette  for  "To  Tim— An  Irish 
Terrier,"  and  "To  Scott  — A  Collie,"  by  Winifred 
M.  Letts. 

Youth's  Companion  for  "  Sir  Walter's  Friend," 
and  "  The  Dog  Who  Loved  You  So,"  by  Zitelia 
Cocke. 


CONTENTS 


THE  FRIEND  OF  MAN 

EULOGY  ON  THE  DOG  (prose),  George  Graham  Vest  2 

TO  MY  DOG  BLANCO,  Josiah  Gilbert  Holland  .  .  3 

FIDELE'S  GRASSY  TOMB,  Henry  Newbolt  ...  4 

HE  'S  JUST  A  DOG,  Joseph  M.  Anderson  ...  7 

YOU  'RE  A  DOG,  C.  L.  Gilman 9 

BRAN  AND  THE  BLOODY  TREE,  O.  R.  ...  9 

THE  MUSHERS,  Joseph  Blethen IO 

DANDIE  DINMONTS,  Will  H.  Ogilvie  ....  12 

THE  IRISH  WOLF-HOUND,  Denis  Florence  McCarthy  13 

THE  REPROACH,  William  Griffith 14 

THE  OUTCAST,  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs  ....  15 

SIR  BAT-EARS,  Mrs.  Parry  Eden  16 

SIX  FEET,  Anonymous 1 8 

WE  MEET  AT  MORN,  Hardwicke  Drummond  Rawnsley  19 

THE  UNFAILING  ONE,  Josephine  Preston  Peabody  .  20 

PETRONIUS,  Frederic  P.  Ladd 21 

THE  BEST  DOG,  Anonymous 21 

A  GENTLEMAN,  Anonymous 23 

THE  END  OF  THE  SEASON,  W.  G.  Tinckom-Fernan- 

dez 24 

THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  HOUNDS,  James  Buckham  .  25 
JOHN  PEEL:  OLD  ENGLISH  HUNTING  SONG,  Mark 

Andrews 26 

MY  DOG  AND  I,  Alice  J.  Cleator 27 

THE  ROAD  TO  VAGABONDIA,  Dana  Burnet  .  .  28 

THE  VAGABONDS,  J.  T.  Trowbridge 30 


xiv  CONTENTS 


RAGGED  ROVER,  Leslie  Clare  Manchester  ...  32 
WATCH:  THE  OLD  PROSPECTOR'S  DOG,  Sharlot  M. 

Hall 33 

TOLD  TO  THE  MISSIONARY,  George  R.  Sims  .  .  37 

MY  FOX  TERRIER,  Anonymous 41 

TO  A  LITTLE  DEAF  DOG,  Ethellyn  Brewer  DeFoe  .  42 

TO  MY  SETTER,  SCOUT,  Frank  H.  Selden  ...  43 

AVE  CAESAR  !R.  C.  Lehmann 45 

JUST  PLAIN  YELLOW,  Anna  Hadley  Middlemas  .  .  47 

CHARITY'S  EYE,  William  Rounseville  Alger  ...  48 

OLD  DOG  TRAY,  Stephen  Collins  Foster  ....  49 

THE  OLD  SHEEP  WAGON,  Arthur  Chapman  .  .  50 

LUATH  (from  «  THE  TWA  DOGS  "),  Robert  Burns  .  51 
CHANCE,  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs  .  .  .  .  .  .51 

BESS,  Orrick  Johns 54 

SHEEP-HERDING,  Sharlot  M.  Hall 56 

TRAY,  Robert  Browning 57 

ABANDONMENT,  John  Galsworthy 58 

ROYALTY,  Orrick  Johns 59 

TO  FLUSH,  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  ....  59 

TO  RUFUS  —  A  SPANIEL,  R.  C.  Lehmann  ...  63 
THE  BLOODHOUND,  Bryan  Waller  Procter  (Barry 

Cornwall) 65 

TO  TIM  —  AN  IRISH  TERRIER,  Winifred  M.  Letts  .  67 

HIS  CODE  OF  HONOR,  Zitella  Cocke  ....  68 

THE  POWER  OF  THE  DOG,  Rudyard  Kipling  .  .  70 

VIGI,  Katharine  Lee  Bates 71 

"  FRENCHIE,"  Sgt.  Frank  C.  McCarthy,  A.E.F.  .  .  73 
THE  WAR  DOG,  Edward  Henry  Peple  .  .  .  .74 

IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 

GOOD  DOGS  (prose),  Baudelaire 80 

THE  DOG-STAR  PUP,  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs  .  .  81 
MY  BULL  TERRIER,  Wex  Jones  .  .  .  . '  .  .84 


CONTENTS  xv 


RHAPSODY  ON  A  DOG'S  INTELLIGENCE,  Surges 

Johnson          86 

THE  BATH^  R.  C.  Lehmann 87 

THE  LAUGH  IN  CHURCH,  Anonymous  ....  88 
WHY  THE  DpG'S  NOSE  IS  COLD,  Margaret  Eytinge  90 

I  'VE  GOT  A  DOG,  Ethel  M.  Kelley 91 

JUST  OUR  DOG,  Anonymous 92 

ODE  ON  THE  DOG,  Josephine  Preston  Peabody  .       .     94 

LITTLE  LOST  PUP,  Anonymous 96 

ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG,  Oliver 

Goldsmith 97 

BEHIND  THE  MUZZLE,  W.  Livingston  Larned  .  .  98 
REMARKS  TO  MY  GROWN-UP  PUP,  Surges  Johnson  99 
WALKING  A  PUPPY,  Will  H.  Ogilvie  .  .  .  .  101 
HORSE,  DOG,  AND  MAN,  S.  E.  Kiser  ....  102 
DOG-GREL  VERSES,  BY  A  POOR  BLIND,  Thomas 

Hood 104 

THE  OULD  HOUND,  Arthur  Stringer  ...    %      .       .       .108 

I  HAD  A  DOG,  O.  R 109 

TIM,  AN  IRISH  TERRIER,  Winifred  M.  Letts  .  .112 
THE  SCHOLAR'S  DOG,  John  Marston  .  .  .  .113 
HIS  GOOD  POINTS,  W.  Livingston  Larned  .  .  .114 
TO  A  PUPPY,  Lewette  Beauchamp  Pollock  .  .  .115 

TRAGEDY,  Anonymous 115 

AN  EPITAPH  — 1792,  William  Cowper       .      .      .      .115 

TO  TOWSER,  Cyril  Bretherton 116 

THE  JOY  OF  PEDIGREE,  W.  Livingston  Larned  .  118 
TO  A  DACHSHOUND,  E.  T.  Hopkins  ....  120 

THE  HAPPY  HUNTING  GROUNDS 

MEMORIES  (prose),  John  Galsworthy 124 

THE  LOST  TRAIL,  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs  .  .  .125 
IN  THE  MANSION  YARD,  William  Hervey  Woods  .  127 
"  DAVY,  "  Louise  Imogen  Guiney 128 


xvi  CONTENTS 


"THE   CURATE  THINKS   YOU   HAVE  NO  SOUL," 

St.  John  Lucas 130 

J   "  LADDIE,"  Katharine  Lee  Bates 130 

.    GEIST'S  GRAVE,  Matthew  Arnold 132 

"  CLUNY,"  Right  Rev.  William  Croswell  Doane  .  .134 
ROGER  AND  I,  Rev.  Julian  S.  Cutler  ....  135 
TO  JOHN,  MY  COLLIE,  Walter  Peirce  ....  137 
SIR  WALTER'S  FRIEND,  Zitella  Cocke  ....  139 
LADDIE'S  LONG  SLEEP,  James  Clarence  Harvey  .  140 
"  WITHOUT  ARE  DOGS,  "  Edward  A.  Church  .  .  141 
"HAMISH"— A  SCOTCH  TERRIER,  C.  Hilton  Brown  142 
TO  "  SCOTT  "  —  A  COLLIE,  Winifred  M.  Letts  .  .  143 
THE  DEAD  BOY'S  PORTRAIT  AND  HIS  DOG,  Gerald 

Massey 143 

FAITHFUL  FOLLOWER,  GENTLE  FRIEND,  Richard 

Burton 145 

THE  TEAR  OF  FRIENDSHIP,  Charles  Tennyson  Turner  146 
A  LAD'S  EPITAPH,  Albert  Payson  Terhune  ...  147 
-  "  BOATSWAIN'S  "  MONUMENT,  Byron  ....  147 

"  FRANCES,"  Richard  Wightman 148 

"THE  DOG  WHO  LOVED  YOU  SO,"  Zitella  Cocke  .  150 
THE  VICAR'S  TRIBUTE:  "  PLUM-PUDDING'S  "  EPI- 
TAPH, George  Arbuthnot 152 

HIS  VANISHED  MASTER,  John  Jay  Chapman  .  .  152 
"  LONELY  I  GO  FARING,"  Anonymous  ....  153 
RANGER'S  GRAVE,  Caroline  Bowles  Southey  .  .154 
TO  SIGURD,  Katharine  Lee  Bates 155 


SONGS  OF  DOGS 


TO  MY  DOG  BLANCO 

My  dear  dumb  friend,  low  lying  there, 
A  willing  vassal  at  my  feet,  — 

Glad  partner  of  my  home  and  fare, 
My  shadow  in  the  street,  — 

I  look  into  your  great  brown  eyes, 
Where  love  and  loyal  homage  shine, 

And  wonder  where  the  difference  lies 
Between  your  soul  and  mine. 

For  all  of  good  that  I  have  found 
Within  myself  or  human  kind 

Hath  royally  informed  and  crowned 
Your  gentle  heart  and  mind. 

I  scan  the  whole  broad  earth  around 
For  that  one  heart  which,  real  and  true, 

Bears  friendship  without  end  or  bound, 
And  find  the  prize  in  you. 

I  trust  you  as  I  trust  the  stars; 

Nor  cruel  loss,  nor  scoff,  nor  pride, 
Nor  beggary,  nor  dungeon  bars, 

Can  move  you  from  my  side. 

As  patient  under  injury 

As  any  Christian  saint  of  old; 

As  gentle  as  a  lamb  with  me, 
But  with  your  brothers  bold. 


'SOJtiGS  OF  DOGS 


More  playful  than  a  frolic  boy, 
More  watchful  than  a  sentinel  — 

By  day  and  night  your  constant  joy 
To  guard  and  please  me  well. 

I  clasp  your  head  upon  my  breast  —  . 

The  while  you  whine  and  lick  my  hand  — 
And  thus  our  friendship  is  confessed, 

And  thus  we  understand. 

Ah,  Blanco !  Did  I  worship  God 

As  truly  as  you  worship  me, 
Or  follow  where  my  Master  trod, 

With  your  humility  — 

Did  I  sit  fondly  at  His  feet, 

As  you,  dear  Blanco,  sit  at  mine, 

And  watch  Him  with  a  love  as  sweet, 
My  life  would  grow  divine. 

Josiah  Gilbert  Holland 


FIDELE'S  GRASSY  TOMB 

The  Squire  sat  propped  in  a  pillowed  chair, 
His  eyes  were  alive  and  clear  of  care, 
But  well  he  knew  that  the  hour  was  come 
To  bid  good-bye  to  his  ancient  home. 

He  looked  on  garden,  wood,  and  hill, 
He  looked  on  the  lake,  sunny  and  still; 
The  last  of  earth  that  his  eyes  could  see 
Was  the  island  church  of  Orchardleigh. 


FIDELE'S  GRASSY  TOMB 


The  last  that  his  heart  could  understand 

Was  the  touch  of  the  tongue  that  licked  his  hand : 

"Bury  the  dog  at  my  feet,"  he  said, 

And  his  voice  dropped,  and  the  Squire  was  dead. 

Now  the  dog  was  a  hound  of  the  Danish  breed, 
Staunch  to  love  and  strong  at  need : 
He  had  dragged  his  master  safe  to  shore 
When  the  tide  was  ebbing  at  Elsinore. 

From  that  day  forth,  as  reason  would, 
He  was  named  "  Fidele,"  and  made  it  good: 
When  the  last  of  the  mourners  left  the  door 
Fidele  was  dead  on  the  chantry  floor. 

They  buried  him  there  at  his  master's  feet, 
And  all  that  heard  of  it  deemed  it  meet: 
The  story  went  the  round  for  years, 
Till  it  came  at  last  to  the  Bishop's  ears. 

Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells  was  he, 

Lord  of  the  lords  of  Orchardleigh; 

And  he  wrote  to  the  Parson  the  strongest  screed 

That  Bishop  may  write  or  Parson  read. 

The  sum  of  it  was  that  a  soulless  hound 

Was  known  to  be  buried  in  hallowed  ground: 

From  scandal  sore  the  Church  to  save 

They  must  take  the  dog  from  his  master's  grave. 

The  heir  was  far  in  a  foreign  land, 
The  Parson  was  wax  to  my  Lord's  command: 
He  sent  for  the  Sexton  and  bade  him  make 
A  lonely  grave  by  the  shore  of  the  lake. 


SONGS  OF  DOGS 


The  Sexton  sat  by  the  water's  brink 
Where  he  used  to  sit  when  he  used  to  think: 
He  reasoned  slow,  but  he  reasoned  it  out, 
And  his  argument  left  him  free  from  doubt. 

"  A  Bishop, "  he  said,  "  is  the  top  of  his  trade: 
But  there's  others  can  give  him  a  start  with  the 

spade: 

Yon  dog,  he  carried  the  Squire  ashore, 
And  a  Christian  could  n't  ha'  done  no  more." 

The  grave  was  dug;  the  mason  came 
And  carved  on  stone  Fidele's  name: 
But  the  dog  that  the  Sexton  laid  inside 
V/as  a  dog  that  never  had  lived  or  died. 

So  the  Parson  was  praised,  and  the  scandal  stayed, 
Till,  a  long  time  after,  the  church  decayed, 
And,  laying  the  floor  anew,  they  found 
In  the  tomb  of  the  Squire  the  bones  of  a  hound. 

As  for  the  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells, 
No  more  of  him  the  story  tells ; 
Doubtless  he  lived  as  a  Prelate  and  Prince, 
And  died  and  was  buried  a  century  since. 

And  whether  his  view  was  right  or  wrong 
Has  little  to  do  with  this  my  song; 
Something  we  owe  him,  you  must  allow; 
And  perhaps  he  has  changed  his  mind  by  now. 

The  Squire  in  the  family  chantry  sleeps, 
The  marble  still  his  memory  keeps : 


HE'S  JUST  A  DOG 


Remember,  when  the  name  you  spell, 
There  rest  Fidele's  bones  as  well. 

For  the  Sexton's  grave  you  need  not  search, 
*T  is  a  nameless  mound  by  the  island  church: 
An  ignorant  fellow,  of  humble  lot  — 
But  he  knew  one  thing  that  a  Bishop  did  not. 

Henry  Newbolt 

y 

HE 'S  JUST  A  DOG 

Here  is  a  friend  who  proves  his  worth 
Without  conceit  or  pride  of  birth. 
Let  want  or  plenty  play  the  host, 
He  gets  the  least  and  gives  the  most  — 
He  's  just  a  dog. 

He's  ever  faithful,  kind  and  true; 
He  never  questions  what  I  do, 
And  whether  I  may  go  or  stay, 
He 's  always  ready  to  obey  — 
'Cause  he 's  a  dog. 

Such  meager  fare  his  want  supplies ! 
A  hand  caress,  and  from  his  eyes 
There  beams  more  love  than  mortals  know; 
Meanwhile  he  wags  his  tail  to  show 
That  he 's  my  dog. 

He  watches  me  all  through  the  day, 
And  nothing  coaxes  him  away; 
And  through  the  night-long  slumber  deep 
He  guards  the  home  wherein  I  sleep  — 
And  he's  a  dog. 


SONGS  OF  DOGS 


I  wonder  if  I  'd  be  content 
To  follow  where  my  master  went, 
And  where  he  rode  —  as  needs  he  must  — 
Would  I  run  after  in  his  dust 
Like  other  dogs? 

How  strange  if  things  were  quite  reversed  — 
The  man  debased,  the  dog  put  first. 
I  often  wonder  how  't  would  be 
Were  he  the  master  'stead  of  me  — 
And  I  the  dog. 

A  world  of  deep  devotion  lies 
Behind  the  windows  of  his  eyes; 
Yet  love  is  only  half  his  charm  — 
He'd  die  to  shield  my  life  from  harm  — 
Yet  he 's  a  dog. 

If  dogs  were  fashioned  out  of  men 
What  breed  of  dog  would  I  have  been? 
And  would  I  e'er  deserve  caress, 
Or  be  extolled  for  faithfulness 
Like  my  dog  here? 

As  mortals  go,  how  few  possess 
Of  courage,  trust,  and  faithfulness 
Enough  from  which  to  undertake, 
Without  some  borrowed  traits,  to  make 
A  decent  dog ! 

Joseph  M.  Anderson 


BRAN  AND  THE  BLOODY  TREE  9 

YOU  'RE  A  DOG 

At  the  kennel  where  they  bred  you  they  were  rais- 
ing fancy  pets, 

Yellow  did  n't  matter,  so  the  blood  was  blue. 
But  the  Red  Gods  mixed  a  medicine  that  cancelled 

all  their  bets  — 

Make  your  tail  say  "  thanks  " :  they  've  made  a 
dog  of  you. 

You  have  heard  the  wolf-pack  howling  and  have 

barked  a  full  defiance; 
You  have  chased  the  moose  and  routed  out  the 

deer; 
You  have  worked  and  played  and  lived  with  man  in 

honorable  alliance, 

You  have  shared  his  tent  and  camp-fire  as  his 
peer. 

When  you  might  have  copped  the  ribbon  you  have 

worn  the  harness-collar, 
Pulling  thrice  your  weight  through  brush  and 

slush  and  bog. 
Sure,  you  might  have  been  a  "  champion,"  without 

value  save  the  dollar, 
But  the  Red  Gods  made  you  priceless  — 
You're  a  dog! 

C.  L.  Oilman 

BRAN  AND  THE  BLOODY  TREE 

Finn  the  son  of  Fiona  Finn  rode  into  the  cabin  yard 
Where  Bran  was  beating  a  great  wolf-hound, 
Roped  to  a  tree  three  times  around; 
But  the  fall  of  the  club  was  the  only  sound, 

For  the  brave  and  the  strong  die  hard. 


io  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Beneath  the  slant  of  his  feathered  hat  the  face  of 

Finn  grew  red ; 

His  hand  was  quick  to  his  hunting  gun 
That  shone  —  a  threat  in  the  mountain  sun  — 
"  Another  stroke  —  an*  your  life  is  done! 

Make  loose  the  dog !  "  he  said. 

Bran  stood  straight  in  the  sunlight  and  blinked  at 

the  morning  sky; 

His  tongue  was  stiff  with  the  taste  of  fear 
And  the  voice  of  Finn  was  in  his  ear : 
"  God  may  forgive  ye,  clean  and  clear, 

But  never  the  dog  nor  I ! 

"  His  kin  have  crouched  at  the  feet  of  Kings  and 

you  think  to  kill  his  pride !  " 
The  rope  fell  slack  to  the  bloody  ground, 
Then  up  from  the  tree  gat  the  great  wolf-hound, 
And  followed  Finn  as  he  reined  him  round 

And  over  the  mountain-side. 

Then  thunder  spake  from  the  silence  and  shattered 

the  Bloody  Tree, 

And  the  heart  of  Bran  was  filled  with  dread, 
As  the  ground  was  washed  of  its  clotted  red* 
And  a  cross  of  black  stood  in  its  stead, 

As  the  dawn  rose  tremblingly.  ~    « 

THE  MUSHERS 

Where  crawls  the  Northern  Mail  still  farther  North 
Beyond  the  ken  of  transit's  conquering  eye, 
Nor  steam,  nor  harnessed  gas,  nor  thunderbolt 
May  draw  the  loads  of  men,  but  only  you  — 


THE  MUSHERS  n 

You  padded-footed  foot-pad,  from  frost  immune 
You  mush  in  Arctic  ice  as  it  were  June  — 

My  Husky. 

Where  crouching  Nature  saps  all  human  strength, 
The  mushing  man  must  look  to  dog  for  aid ; 
Where  roaring  Blizzard  shows  his  icy  teeth, 
You  packed  my  pack  and  drew  my  crowded  sled; 
You  strained  your  back  —  you  wolf  in  leather 

thongs, 
To  right  by  day  your  endless  nightly  wrongs  — 

My  Husky. 

Where  gold  lures  man  out  yonder,  where  copper 

calls, 

Where  pelts  of  Noah's  children  fill  the  traps, 
You  hid  your  fangs  and  bent  to  human  will, 
By  day  a  servant ;  by  night  a  howling  fiend, 
Your  wolf-call  piercing  down  the  lonesome  trail 
Till  frozen  Storm  King  shivered  at  your  wail  — 

My  Husky. 

Across  that  land  we  mushed  together,  Dog! 
Of  heart-breaks  many,  till  that  happy  day 
We  hit  the  scent  of  Nature's  treasure  chest 
And  burned  the  lid  to  warm  our  palsied  shins. 
To-night  in  comfort  dream  we  by  the  fire 
While  fifty  banks  to  guard  our  gold  aspire  — 

My  Husky. 

My  beard  was  brown  but  now  it's  Winter's  white, 
And  your  black  coat,  my  Husky,  fades  to  brown — 
Two  pals,  trail-broke  and  true,  we  nod  in  peace 
Where  harnessed  lightning  lights  our  drowsy  house, 


12  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

And  man's  machines  may  waft  us  here  and  there  — 
On  sea  or  land  —  or  wing  us  through  the  air  — 

My  Husky. 

Yet  one  thing  have  we  missed,  you,  Dog  —  and  I; 
No  children  paw  your  back  nor  seek  my  knee. 
Alone  we  wandered  through  those  endless  worlds, 
And  lost  Youth's  right  to  claim  Youth's  fruitful  mate. 
Alone  we  sprawl  with  Memory's  bulging  noons 
While  Fancy  leads  us  through  lost  honeymoons  — 

My  Husky. 

So  here  we  nest,  two  tired  sourdoughs, 
Until  the  call  shall  come  to  hit  that  trail 
That  bends  one  lonesome  way  and  only  one; 
Nor  musher  meets  with  musher  homeward  bound; 
I'll  ask,  when  yonder,  you  shall  enter,  too, 
And  Heaven's  Auditor  will  welcome  you  — 

My  Husky. 

You  Malamute !  Life-guest  within  my  gates ! 

If  hell  be  our  reward  at  Judgment  Day, 

I  know  through  hell  you'll  mush  along  with  me 

To  draw  my  load  of  unforgiven  sins  — 

But  if  through  Judgment  Gate  we  enter  Paradise, 

At  heel  you'll  sulk  to  dream  of  endless  ice  — 

My  Husky. 
Joseph  Blethen 

DANDIE  DINMONTS 

Pepper  or  Mustard  —  what 's  the  odds? 

Valiant,  varmint,  lithe  and  low, 
These  were  the  hounds  that  the  wise  old  gods 

Took  to  their  hunting  an  aeon  ago; 


THE  IRISH  WOLF-HOUND  13 

These  when  the  wild  boar  stamped  and  stood, 
These  when  the  gaunt  wolf  snapped  at  bay, 

Grim  and  relentless,  rash  and  rude, 
Went  for  the  throat  in  the  Dandie  way. 

Deep  in  the  slope  of  that  dome-like  head, 

Under  that  top-knot  crimped  and  curled, 
Surely  the  fighting  fire  was  fed 

Before  the  fires  were  cool  in  the  world; 
Surely  't  was  these  that  the  cave-men  kept, 

Comrades  in  hunting,  sport  and  war, 
Sharing  the  shelves  where  their  masters  slept, 

Tearing  the  bones  that  their  masters  tore. 

No?  —  Well,  have  it  the  way  you  please; 

But  I  '11  wager  it  was  n't  a  show-ring  Fox, 
Poodle  or  Pom  or  Pekingese, 

That  bayed  the  Mammoth  among  the  rocks; 
But  something  tousled  and  tough  and  blue, 

Lined  like  a  weasel  —  arch  and  dip, 
Coming  up  late,  as  the  Dandies  do, 

And  going  right  in  with  the  Border  grip. 

Will  H.  Ogilvie 


THE  IRISH  WOLF-HOUND 

As  fly  the  shadows  o'er  the  grass 

He  flies  with  step  as  light  and  sure, 
He  hunts  the  wolf  through  Tostan  Pass 

And  starts  the  deer  by  Lisanoure. 
The  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells, 

O  Con !  has  not  a  sweeter  sound 
Than  when  along  the  valley  swells 

The  cry  of  John  MacDonnelPs  hound. 


14  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

His  stature  tall,  his  body  long, 

His  back  like  night,  his  breast  like  snow, 
His  foreleg  pillar-like  and  strong, 

His  hind  leg  like  a  bended  bow, 
Rough  curling  hair,  head  long  and  thin, 

His  ear  a  leaf  so  small  and  round  — 
Not  Bran,  the  favorite  dog  of  Finn, 

Could  rival  John  MacDonnelPs  hound. 

Denis  Florence  McCarthy 

THE  REPROACH 

To-day  hell  chuckled  at  another  lie, 
That  gave  no  human  being  any  pain, 

Except  one  temporary  soul.  Nor  Cain 

Was  more  heart-heavy  when  he  came  to  die. 

I  branded  him  a  cur  that  by-and-bye 

Would  go  the  way  of  mongrels  and  be  slain, 

By  man  nor  God  regretted :  clear  and  plain 
Were  the  reproaches  written  in  his  eye. 

He  bridled  slightly  ere  he  slunk  away 
An  hour  ago  and  perished  in  a  bog, 
Saving  two  children  who  had  gone  astray: 
Since  when  the  sirens  sounding  through  the 

fog 

Are  Gabriel  horns  that  thunder  me  to  pray, 
Or  to  be  damned  for  slandering  my  dog. 

William  Griffith 


THE  OUTCAST  15 

THE  OUTCAST 

With  trill  of  birds  adown  the  dawn  there  came 
A  golden  pathway  through  the  eastern  pass, 

And  in  the  gold  were  eyes  of  amber  flame 
That  burned  upon  me  from  the  dewy  grass. 

A  wolf-dog,  from  some  distant  rancho  strayed, 
Had  made  his  bed  beneath  the  pepper-tree ; 

A  great,  gray  ghost,  sore  wounded,  lone,  afraid, 
He  growled  deep-throated  as  he  glared  at  me. 

With  kindly  word  I  lured  him  from  his  bed 

And  proffered  food  and  drink,  and  nearer  drew, 

But  in  his  eyes  I  saw  affection  dead; 

'T  was  hate  and  hunger  only  that  he  knew. 

Poor  brute,  one  brave  and  fearless  as  the  best, 
Faithful  to  some  lost  master's  kindly  hand, 

I  grieved  that  I  had  so  disturbed  his  rest 
As  trembling  in  the  sun  I  saw  him  stand 

Fearful  and  yet  assured  that  in  my  voice 

A  friend  he  knew.  He  quivered,  turned  and  then, 

As  though  he  had  made  choice  against  his  choice, 
Betook  him,  limping,  to  the  road  again. 

Slowly  I  followed  coaxing,  calling,  till 
The  very  act  of  fleeing  lent  him  fear; 

Swiftly  he  climbed  the  long,  low  western  hill, 
Gazed  back  an  instant  —  turned  to  disappear  — 

And  still  I  followed,  sick  at  heart  for  him, 

Sad  for  the  strong,  brave  brute  he  once  had  been, 


16  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

As  in  the  morning  sun  my  eyes  grew  dim 
To  see  him  crouched  again  amid  the  green, 

Resting  his  battered  head  upon  his  paws; 

Licking  his  wounds,  then  glancing  wildly  round ; 
Ah,  pity  that  his  fear  was  without  cause ! 

...  I  turned  and  left  him  stretched  upon  the 
ground. 

An  outcast;  but  if  human  love  for  beast 

Has  any  worth,  I  prayed  that  night  would  send 
An  easy  death.  Ah,  could  he  know  at  least 

How  much,  how  much  I  would  have  been  his 
friend. 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 

SIR  BAT-EARS 

Sir  Bat-Ears  was  a  dog  of  birth 

And  bred  in  Aberdeen, 

But  he  favoured  not  his  noble  kin 

And  so  his  lot  is  mean, 

And  Sir  Bat-Ears  sits  by  the  almshouse, 

On  the  stones  with  grass  between. 

Under  the  ancient  archway 
His  pleasure  is  to  wait 
Between  the  two  stone  pineapples 
That  flank  the  weathered  gate; 

And  old,  old  alms-persons  go  by, 
All  rusty,  bent  and  black, 
"  Good-day,  good-day,  Sir  Bat-Ears," 
They  say,  and  stroke  his  back. 


SIR  BAT-EARS  17 


And  old,  old  alms-persons  go  by, 
Shaking  and  well-nigh  dead, 
"  Good-night,  good-night,  Sir  Bat-Ears ! " 
They  say,  and  pat  his  head. 

So  courted  and  considered 
He  sits  out  hour  by  hour, 
Benignant  in  the  sunshine 
And  prudent  in  the  shower. 

(Nay,  stoutly  can  he  stand  a  storm 
And  stiffly  breast  the  rain, 
That  rising  when  the  cloud  is  gone 
He  leaves  a  circle  of  dry  stone 
Whereon  to  sit  again.) 

A  dozen  little  doorsteps 
Under  the  arch  are  seen,  ^ 
A  dozen  aged  alms-persons  ~ 
To  keep  them  bright  and  clean: 

Two  wrinkled  hands  to  scour  each  step 
With  a  square  of  yellow  stone  — 
But  print-marks  of  Sir  Bat-Ears1  paws 
Bespeckle  every  one. 

And  little  eats  an  alms-person, 
But,  though  his  board  be  bare, 
There  never  lacks  a  bone  of  the  best 
To  be  Sir  Bat-Ears'  share. 

Mendicant  muzzle  and  shrewd  nose, 
He  quests  from  door  to  door; 


i8  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Their  grace  they  say  —  his  shadow  gray 
Is  instant  on  the  floor, 
Humblest  of  all  the  dogs  there  be, 
A  pensioner  of  the  poor. 

Mrs.  Parry  Eden 

SIX  FEET 

My  little  rough  dog  and  I 

Live  a  life  that  is  rather  rare. 

We  have  so  many  good  walks  to  take 

And  so  few  hard  things  to  bear; 

So  much  that  gladdens  and  re-creates, 

So  little  of  wear  and  tear. 

Sometimes  it  blows  and  rains, 

But  still  the  six  feet  ply: 

No  care  at  all  to  the  following  four 

If  the  leading  two  know  why. 

'T  is  a  pleasure  to  have  six  feet,  we  think, 

My  little  rough  dog  and  I. 

And  we  travel  all  one  way; 

'T  is  a  thing  we  should  never  do, 

To  reckon  the  two  without  the  four 

Or  the  four  without  the  two. 

It  would  not  be  right  if  any  one  tried, 

Because  it  would  not  be  true. 

And  who  shall  look  up  and  say 

That  it  ought  not  so  to  be, 

Tho*  the  earth  is  Heaven  enough  for  him, 

Is  it  less  than  that  to  me? 

For  a  little  rough  dog  can  make  a  joy 

That  enters  eternity!  Anonymous 


WE  MEET  AT  MORN  19 

WE  MEET  AT  MORN 

Still  half  in  dream,  upon  the  stair  I  hear 

A  patter  coming  nearer  and  more  near, 

And  then  upon  my  chamber  door 

A  gentle  tapping  — 

For  dogs,  though  proud,  are  poor, 

And  if  a  tail  will  do  to  give  command, 

Why  use  a  hand? 

And  after  that  a  cry,  half  sneeze,  half  yapping, 

And  next  a  scuffle  on  the  passage  floor, 

And  then  I  know  the  creature  lies  to  watch 

Until  the  noiseless  maid  will  lift  the  latch, 

And  like  a  spring 

That  gains  its  power  by  being  tightly  stayed, 

The  impatient  thing 

Into  the  room 

Its  whole  glad  heart  doth  fling. 

And  ere  the  gloom 

Melts  into  light,  and  window  blinds  are  rolled, 

I  hear  a  bounce  upon  the  bed, 

I  feel  a  creeping  toward  me  —  a  soft  head, 

And  on  my  face 

A  tender  nose,  and  cold  — 

This  is  the  way,  you  know,  that  dogs  embrace  — 

And  on  my  hand,  like  sun-warmed  rose-leaves 

flung, 

The  least  faint  flicker  of  the  warmest  tongue 
—  And  so  my  dog  and  I  have  met  and  sworn 
Fresh  love  and  fealty  for  another  morn. 

Hardwicke  Drummond  Rawnsley 


20  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

THE  UNFAILING  ONE 

So,  back  again? 

—  And  is  your  errand  done, 
Unfailing  one? 

How  quick  the  gray  world,  at  your  morning  look? 
Turns  wonder-book ! 
Come  in  —  O  guard  and  guest: 
Come,  O  you  breathless,  from  a  lifelong  quest! 
Search  here  my  heart;  and  if  a  comfort  be, 
Ah,  comfort  me. 
You  eloquent  one,  you  best 
Of  all  diviners,  so  to  trace 
The  weather-gleams  upon  a  face; 
With  wordless,  querying  paw, 
Adventuring  the  law ! 
You  shaggy  Loveliness, 

What  call  was  it?  —  What  dream  beyond  a  guess, 
Lured  you,  gray  ages  back, 
From  that  lone  bivouac 
Of  the  wild  pack?  — 

Was  it  your  need  or  ours?  The  calling  trail 
Of  faith  that  should  not  fail? 
That  you  should  follow  our  poor  humanhood, 
Only  because  you  would ! 
To  search  and  circle  —  follow  and  outstrip 
Men  and  their  fellowship; 
And  keep  your  heart  no  less, 
Your  to-and-fro  of  hope  and  wistfulness, 
Through  all  world-weathers  and  against  all  odds ! 

Can  you  forgive  us,  now?  — 
Your  fallen  gods? 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 


THE  BEST  DOG  21 

PETRONIUS 

A  dog  there  was,  Petronius  by  name  — 
A  cur  of  no  degree,  yet  which  the  same 
Rejoiced  him;  because  so  worthless  he 
That  in  his  worthlessness  remarkably 
He  shone,  th'  example  de  luxe  of  how  a  cur 
May  be  the  very  limit  of  a  slur 
Upon  the  honored  name  of  dog;  a  joke 
He  was,  a  satire  blasphemous ;  he  broke 
The  records  all  for  sheer  insulting  "  bunk"; 
No  dog  had  ever  breathed  who  was  so  punk! 

And  yet  that  cur,  Petronius  by  name, 
Enkindled  in  his  master's  heart  a  flame 
Of  love,  affection,  reverence  so  rare 
That  had  he  been  an  angel  bright  and  fair 
The  homage  paid  him  had  been  less;  you  see 
The  red-haired  boy  who  owned  him  had  a  bee  — 
There  was  no  other  dog  on  land  or  sea. 
Petronius  was  solid;  he  just  was 
The  dog,  the  only  dog  on  earth,  because  — 
Because  a  red-haired  boy  who  likes  his  dog  — 
He  likes  that  dog  so  much  no  other  dog 
Exists  —  and  that,  my  friends,  is  loyalty, 
Than  which  there  is  no  grander  ecstasy. 

Frederic  P.  Ladd 

THE  BEST  DOG 

Yes,  I  went  to  see  the  bow-wows,  and  I  looked  at 
every  one, 

Proud  dogs  of  ev'ry  breed  and  strain  that's  under- 
neath the  sun; 


22  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

But  not  one  could  compare  with  —  you  may  hear  it 

with  surprise  — 
A  little  dog  I  know  that  never  took  a  prize. 

Not  that  they  would  have  skipped  him  when  they 
gave  the  ribbons  out, 

Had  there  been  a  class  to  fit  him  —  though  his 
lineage  is  in  doubt. 

No  judge  of  dogs  could  e'er  resist  the  honest,  faith- 
ful eyes 

Of  that  plain  little  yellow  dog  that  never  took  a  prize. 

Suppose  he  wasn't  trained  to  hunt,  and  never 

killed  a  rat, 
And  is  n't  much  on  tricks  or  looks  or  birth  —  well, 

what  of  that? 
That  might  be  said  of  lots  of  folks  whom  men  call 

great  and  wise, 
As  well  as  of  that  yellow  dog  that  never  took  a  prize. 

It  is  n't  what  a  dog  can  do,  or  what  a  dog  may  be, 
That  hits  a  man;  it's  simply  this  —  does  he  believe 

in  me? 
And  by  that  test  I  know  there's  not  the  compeer 

'neath  the  skies 
Of  that  plain  little  yellow  dog  that  never  took  a 

prize. 

Oh,  he 's  the  finest  little  pup  that  ever  wagged  a  tail, 
And  followed  man  with  equal  joy  to  Congress  or  to 

jail. 
I  'm  going  to  start  a  special  show  —  't  will  beat  the 

world  for  size  — 
For  faithful  little  yellow  dogs,  and  each  shall  have 

aprize'  [Anonymous 


A  GENTLEMAN  23 


A  GENTLEMAN 

I  own  a  dog  who  is  a  gentleman; 
By  birth  most  surely,  since  the  creature  can 
Boast  of  a  pedigree  the  like  of  which 
Holds  not  a  Howard  nor  a  Metternich. 

By  breeding:  Since  the  walks  of  life  he  tro 
He  never  wagged  an  unkind  tale  abroad. 
He  never  snubbed  a  nameless  cur  because 
Without  a  friend  or  credit-card  he  was. 

By  pride :  He  looks  you  squarely  in  the  face 
Unshrinking  and  without  a  single  trace 
Of  either  diffidence  or  arrogant 
Assertion  such  as  upstarts  often  flaunt. 

By  tenderness:  The  littlest  girl  may  tear 
With  absolute  impunity  his  hair, 
And  pinch  his  silken  flowing  ears  the  while 
He  smiles  upon  her  —  yes,  I  Ve  seen  him  smile. 

By  loyalty :  No  truer  friend  than  he 
Has  come  to  prove  his  friendship's  worth  to  me. 
He  does  not  fear  the  master  —  knows  no  fear  — 
But  loves  the  man  who  is  his  master  here. 

By  countenance :  If  there  be  nobler  eyes, 
More  full  of  honor  and  of  honesties, 
In  finer  head,  on  broader  shoulders  found  — 
Then  have  I  never  met  the  man  or  hound. 
Here  is  the  motto  of  my  lifeboat's  log : 
"  God  grant  I  may  be  worthy  of  my  dog! " 

Anonymous 


24  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

THE  END  OF  THE  SEASON 

There 's  a  keen  wind  searching  the  marshes 

With  a  tang  of  the  open  sea, 
And  a  wind-blown  sky  of  opal 

For  a  sense  of  Infinity  — 
As  a  dog  and  I,  together, 
Sit  close  and  curse  the  weather 
And  wait  for  the  grey-goose  feather 

While  a  cramp  strikes  to  the  knee. 

There's  a  loneliness  of  Sahara 

Except  for  his  patient  head, 
And  his  wet  nose  lifted  to  windward 

For  a  squadron  fan-wise  spread  — 
As  we  sigh  that  the  summer's  over, 
With  our  long  tramps  through  the  clover, 
I  and  this  old  land  rover, 

Though  scarce  a  word  is  said. 

There 's  a  stealthy  sea-fog  stalking 

Across  the  ghostly  dune, 
As  we  turn  us  empty-handed 

With  a  half-forgotten  time  — 
Some  day  we'll  quit  our  roaming: 
Together  in  the  gloaming, 
Twin  shades  that  would  be  homing 

Beneath  a  hunting  moon. 

W.  G.  Tinckom- Fernandez 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  HOUNDS    25 

THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  HOUNDS 

O !  hark  how  it  swells  on  the  clear  morning  air, 
When  the  world  is  all  white  with  the  frost  and  the 
snow, 

And  away  o'er  the  hills  flies  the  fox  or  the  hare, 
While  shoulder  to  shoulder  the  streaming  dogs 

go, 

All  hot  on  the  scent  with  their  wrinkled  necks  bent 
And  their  dewlaps  a-swing  and  their  ears  sweep- 
ing low. 

Now  lost  in  the  hollow,  now  loud  on  the  hill; 

Now  sweeping  like  faint  chime  of  bells  through 

the  pines; 
Now  veering  and  nearing  and  sending  a  thrill 

To  the  heart  of  the  hunter  who  watchful  reclines, 
With  rifle  held  low  and  with  elbow  in  snow, 

By  the  broken  stone  wall  with  its  tangle  of  vines. 

A  shot  and  a  shout!  but  the  quarry  swings  'round. 

Mark  yon !  like  the  wind  it  is  climbing  the  slope, 

And  the  hounds  hot  and  baffled  are  nosing  the 

ground, 

And  crying  "  lost  scent "  like  a  soul  without  hope. 
But  hear  that  wild  strain!  they  have  found  it 

again, 
And  all  in  a  bunch  up  the  hillside  they  lope. 

Away  and  away  goes  the  music  divine, 
As  clear  as  a  bugle,  as  sweet  as  a  flute. 

It  leaps  in  my  blood  like  the  madness  of  wine, 
It  rouses  my  soul  with  the  rage  of  pursuit. 


26  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

O  hounds  in  full  tongue !  how  the  stale  world  grows 

young 

With  the  primitive  passion  that  throbs  in  the 
brute. 

Then  ho !  for  the  field  when  December  draws  on 

And  twigs  of  the  wildwood  are  silvered  with  frost. 
Slip  leash  from  old  Bugler  and  Trailer  and  Don, 
And  loose  that  hot  pack  where  the  quarry  has 

crossed. 

A  blue  winter  sky  with  the  hounds  in  full  cry  — 
They  Jve  found  the  wild  pipes  that  the  shepherd- 
god  lost. 

James  Buckham 

\ 

JOHN  PEEL 

OLD  ENGLISH  HUNTING  SONG 
Do  ye  ken  John  Peel  with  his  coat  so  gay, 
Do  ye  ken  John  Peel  at  the  break  of  the  day? 
Do  ye  ken  John  Peel,  when  he 's  far,  far  away, 
With  his  hounds  and  his  horse,  in  the  morning? 
For  the  sound  of  his  horn  brought  me  from  my  bed, 
And  the  cry  of  his  hounds  which  he  oft-times  led  — 
Peel's  "  view-hallo  I "  would  waken  the  dead, 
Or  the  fox  from  his  lair,  in  the  morning. 

Yes,  I  ken  John  Peel,  and  Ruby  too, 

Ranter  and  Ringwood,  Bellman  and  True: 

From  a  "  find  "  to  a  "  check," 

From  a  "  check  "  to  a  "  view," 

From  a  "  view  "  to  a  "  death,"  in  the  morning. 

For  the  sound  of  his  horn,  etc. 


MY  DOG  AND  I  27 

Do  ye  ken  John  Peel,  wi'  his  coat  so  gay? 
He  lived  at  Troutbeck  once  on  a  day, 
But  now  he 's  gone  far,  far  away, 
We  shall  ne'er  hear  his  horn  in  the  morning. 
But  the  sound  of  his  horn,  etc. 

Mark  Andrews 


MY  DOG  AND  I 

When  living  seems  but  little  worth 

And  all  things  go  awry, 
I  close  the  door,  we  journey  forth  — 

My  dog  and  I ! 

For  books  and  pen  we  leave  behind, 

But  little  carethhe; 
His  one  great  joy  in  life  is  just 

To  be  with  me. 

He  notes  by  just  one  upward  glance 

My  mental  attitude, 
As  on  we  go  past  laughing  stream 

And.  singing  wood. 

The  soft  winds  have  a  magic  touch 
That  brings  to  care  release, 

The  trees  are  vocal  with  delight, 
The  rivers  sing  of  peace. 

How  good  it  is  to  be  alive ! 

Nature,  the  healer  strong, 
Has  set  each  pulse  with  life  athrill 

And  joy  and  song. 


28  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Discouragement !  'T  was  but  a  name, 

And  all  things  that  annoy, 
Out  in  the  lovely  world  of  June 

Life  seemeth  only  joy! 

And  ere  we  reach  the  busy  town, 

Like  birds  my  troubles  fly, 
We  are  two  comrades  glad  of  heart  — 

My  dog  and  I ! 

Alice  J.  Cleator 


THE  ROAD  TO  VAGABONDIA 

He  was  sitting  on  a  doorstep  as  I  went  strolling  by; 
A  lonely  little  beggar  with  a  wistful,  homesick  eye  — 
And  he  was  n't  what  you  >d  borrow 
And  he  was  n't  what  you  Jd  steal  — 
But  I  guessed  his  heart  was  breaking, 
So  I  whistled  him  to  heel. 

They  had  stoned  him  through  the  city  streets  and 

naught  the  city  cared, 
But  I  was  heading  outward  and  the  roads  are 

sweeter  shared, 
So  I  took  him  for  a  comrade  and  I  whistled  him 

away  — 

On  the  road  to  Vagabondia  that  lies  across  the  day. 
» 

Yellow  dog  he  was ;  but,  bless  you  —  he  was  just 

the  chap  for  me ! 
For  I  'd  rather  have  an  incn  of  dog  than  miles  of 

pedigree. 


THE  ROAD  TO  VAGABONDIA  29 

So  we  stole  away  together  on  the  road  that  has  no 

end 
With  a  new-coined  day  to  fling  away  and  all  the 

stars  to  spend! 

Oh,  to  walk  the  road  at  morning,  when  the  wind  is 

blowing  clean, 
And  the  yellow  daisies  fling  their  gold  across  a 

world  of  green  — 
For  the  wind  it  heals  the  heartaches  and  the  sun  it 

dries  the  scars, 
On  the  road  to  Vagabondia  that  lies  beneath  the 

stars. 

*T  was  the  wonder  of  the  going  cast  a  spell  about 

our  feet  — 
We  walked  because  the  world  was  young,  because 

the  way  was  sweet; 
And  we  slept  in  wild-rose  meadows  by  the  little 

wayside  farms, 
Till  the  Dawn  came  up  the  highroad  with  the  dead 

moon  in  her  arms. 

Oh,  the  Dawn  it  went  before  us  through  a  shining 

lane  of  skies, 
And  the  Dream  was  at  our  heartstrings  and  the 

light  was  in  our  eyes, 
And  we  made  no  boast  of  glory  and  we  made  no 

boast  of  birth, 
On  the  road  to  Vagabondia  that  lies  across  the 

earth. 

Dana  Burnet 


30  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

THE  VAGABONDS 

We  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I. 

Roger 's  my  dog.  —  Come  here,  you  scamp! 

Jump  for  the  gentleman,  —  mind  your  eye ! 

Over  the  table,  —  look  out  for  the  lamp ! 

The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old; 

Five  years  we've  tramped  through  wind  and 

weather, 

And  slept  outdoors  when  nights  were  cold, 
And  ate  and  drank  —  and  starved  —  together. 

We've  learned  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you! 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 

A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs  (poor  fellow! 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there 's  been  frozen), 

Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle 

(This  outdoors  business  is  bad  for  strings), 

Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle, 

And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings ! 

No,  thank  ye,  Sir,  —  I  never  drink; 
Roger  and  I  are  exceedingly  moral,  — 
Are  n't  we,  Roger?  —  See  him  wink!  — 
Well,  something  hot  then,  —  we  won't  quarrel. 
He 's  thirsty,  too,  —  see  him  nod  his  head? 
What  a  pity,  Sir,  that  dogs  can't  talk! 
He  understands  every  word  that 's  said,  — 
And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water-and-chalk. 

The  truth  is,  Sir,  now  I  reflect, 
I  >ve  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I  've  not  lost  the  respect 
(Here 's  to  you,  Sir !)  even  of  my  dog. 


THE  VAGABONDS  31 

But  he  sticks  by,  through  thick  and  thin; 
And  this  old  coat  with  its  empty  pockets, 
And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  and  gin, 
He  '11  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in  his  sockets. 

There  is  n't  another  creature  living 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  every  disaster, 

So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving, 

To  such  a  miserable,  thankless  master! 

No,  Sir!  —  See  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin! 

By  George !  it  makes  my  old  eyes  water ! 

That  is,  there 's  something  in  this  gin 

That  chokes  a  fellow.  But  —  no  matter! 

We  '11  have  some  music,  if  you  're  willing, 
And  Roger  (hem!  what  a  plague  a  cough  is,  Sir!) 
Shall  march  a  little.  —  Start,  you  villain ! 
Paws  up !  Eyes  front !  Salute  your  officer ! 
'Bout  face !  Attention !  Take  your  rifle ! 
(Some  dogs  have  arms,  you  see !)  Now  hold  your 
Cap  while  the  gentlemen  give  a  trifle, 
To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot  soldier! 

March!  Halt!  Now  show  how  the  rebel  shakes 
When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence. 
Now  tell  us  how  many  drams  it  takes 
To  honor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps,  — -  that  >s  five;  he 's  mighty  knowing! 
The  night's  before  us,  fill  the  glasses!  — 
Quick,  Sir!  I'm  ill,  —  my  brain  is  going!  — 
Some  brandy,  —  thank  you,  —  there!  —  it  passes! 


32  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 

This  pain;  then  Roger  and  I  will  start. 

I  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden, 

Aching  thing  in  place  of  a  heart? 

He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep,  if  he  could, 

No  doubt  remembering  things  that  were,  — 

A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food, 

And  himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 

I'm  better  now;  that  glass  was  warming.  — 

You  rascal!  limber  your  lazy  feet! 

We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street.  — 

Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think? 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free, 

And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  nor  drink :  — 

The  sooner,  the  better  for  Roger  and  me ! 

J.  T.  Trowbridge 


RAGGED  ROVER 

I  have  still  a  vision  of  him, 
Ragged  Rover,  as  he  lay 
In  the  sunshine  of  the  morning 
On  the  doorstone  worn  and  gray; 
Where  the  honeysuckle  trellis 
Hung  its  tinted  blossoms  low, 
And  the  well-sweep  with  its  bucket 
Swung  its  burden  to  and  fro; 
Where  the  maples  were  a-quiver 
In  the  pleasant  June-time  breeze; 
And  where  droned  among  the  phloxes 
Half  a  hundred  golden  bees. 


WATCH  33 


Yes,  I  have  a  vision  with  me 
Of  a  home  upon  a  hill; 
And  my  heart  is  sad  with  longing 
And  my  eyes  with  tear-drops  fill. 
I  would  be  the  care-free  urchin 
That  I  was  so  long  ago 
When  across  the  sunlit  meadows 
Rover  with  me  used  to  go 
Yonder  where  the  graceful  lindens 
Threw  their  shadows  far  and  cool, 
And  the  waters  waited  for  me 
In  the  brimming  swimming-pool. 

I  can  see  him  drive  the  cattle 
From  the  pasture  through  the  lane 
With  their  mellow  bells  a-tinkle, 
Sending  out  a  low  refrain; 
I  can  see  him  drive  them  homeward, 
Speckle,  Brindle,  Bess,  and  Belle; 
All  the  herd  from  down  the  valley 
As  the  shades  of  even  fell. 
Thus,  I  wander  like  a  pilgrim  — 
Slow  the  steps  that  once  were  strong; 
Back  to  greet  him,  Ragged  Rover, 
And  my  childhood's  ceaseless  song. 

Leslie  Clare  Manchester 


WATCH 

THE  OLD  PROSPECTOR'S  DOG 

What 's  that  ye  say?  That  yaller  dog 
Ain't  killed  with  handsomeness,  ye  'low? 

Well,  he  ain't  travellin'  on  his  shape, 
I  tell  ye  that  right  here  an'  now. 


34  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Ye  would  n't  have  him  follerin'  you, 
Ner  be  ketched  dead  with  him  beside? 

Well,  I  don't  want  no  better  pard 
When  I  tramp  up  the  Great  Divide. 

The  beauty  club  shied  off,  I  guess, 
An'  hit  him  pretty  middlin'  light; 

But  looks  don't  fill  no  empty  tanks  — 
An'  plain  old  stay  's  what  wins  a  fight. 

An'  that  dog 's  got  the  stayin*  powers 
A  long  sight  more  'n  the  most  o'  men; 

He 's  just  clean  grit  an'  "  stay  there  "  mixed, 
An'  don't  ask  no  odds  how  an'  when. 

See  them  big  slashes  on  his  sides, 

All  runnin'  ever'  which-a-way? 
Well,  if  it  was  n't  f  er  them  scars 

I  'd  not  be  top  o'  ground  to-day. 

*T  was  crossin'  of  the  Plomas  Range; 

I  'd  made  a  right  big  strike,  ye  see, 
An'  ever'  loafer  in  the  camp 

Was  hangin'  round  an'  watchin'  me. 

Thinks  I:  "  You'd  better  pull  your  freight 
Between  two  suns  an'  cache  that  dust, 

Unless  ye  want  some  knife  to  let 

Th'  daylight  in  through  your  ol'  crust." 

Well,  me  an'  Watch  an'  my  ol'  mule 

Jest  humped  ourselves  fer  three  hull  days, 

An'  then,  sez  I:  "  We'll  rest,  ol'  pard; 
Nobody's  follered  us  this  ways." 


WATCH  35 


So  I  just  cooks  a  bit  o'  grub 

An*  lays  right  down  an'  goes  to  snorin', 
An'  never  knows  another  thing 

Untell  I  hear  ol'  Watch  a-roarin'. 

I  jumped  right  up  an'  into  Hell  — • 

A  pair  o'  Greasers  chokin'  me, 
An'  punchin'  of  me  with  a  knife  — 

Another  'n  fightin'  Watch  —  an'  he 

Jest  looks  at  me  an'  keeps  a-chawin* 
The  rascal's  throat,  an'  growlin'  low, 

As  if  to  say:  "  Hold  on,  ol'  pard  — 
I  'm  comin'  soon 's  I  git  a  show.'1 

I  fit  an'  scratched  an'  dodged  that  knife  — 
An'  then  my  foot  slipped  on  a  stone 

An'  things  looked  dark  —  but  next  I  knowed 
Ol'  Watch  was  playin'  it  alone. 

He  dropped  his  man  an'  tackled  mine  — 
An'  when  my  head  got  clear  ag'in 

I  see  a  pile  o'  rags  an'  truck 
Where  them  three  Greaser  thieves  had  bin. 

An'  that  ol'  dog  was  guardin'  me, 
An'  lickin'  of  my  hands  an'  face  — 

An'  him  jest  red  with  drippin'  blood  — 
There  was  n't  nary  yaller  place 

On  his  ol'  hide  frum  head  to  foot. 

I  »se  'most  as  bad  —  but  I  caught  that  mule 
An'  somehow  histed  me  an'  Watch 

Up  on  'er  back  —  the  night  was  cool  — 


36  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

An'  we  lit  out  — •  an'  long  near  day 
I  hear  'way  off  a  rooster  crowin'  — 

An'  jest  what  happened  after  that 
I  hain't  no  certain  way  o'  knowin'; 

Fer  next  I  knowed  I  hear  a  voice 
That  kep'  a-tellin'  me;  "  Be  still  — 

Jest  swaller  this  here  mighty  quick, 
An'  when  ye  've  et  an'  drunk  yer  fill 

"  I  '11  let  ye  talk.  Th'  dog,  ye  say? 

Oh !  he 's  all  right  —  he  saved  yer  skin ; 
Come  howlin'  here  'fore  break  o'  day, 

An'  we  lit  out  an'  brung  ye  in  —  ^ 

"  Him  leadin'  right  to  where  you  lay  — 
Down  crost  th'  wash  an'  up  th'  hill  — 

Live?  'Course  he  '11  live.  Now  you  hoi'  on  — 
This  hain't  your  talk  —  you  jes'  keep  still." 

So  I  lays  still  —  an'  Watch  does  too  — 

Jest  sort  o'  laid  up  fer  repairs 
Fer  weeks  an'  weeks  —  till  last  we  got 

As  hearty  as  a  pair  o'  bears. 

Then  we  lit  out  —  a-headin'  straight 
Back  to  th'  ol'  home  in  Mizzoury  — > 

An'  me  an'  Watch  '11  settle  down 
An'  take  our  ease,  I  jest  assure  ye. 

An'  any  feller  that  thinks  our  looks 
Hain't  up  to  par,  ner  apt  to  mash 

Th'  most  o'  folks,  kin  have  his  say  — 
But  me  an'  Watch  has  got  th'  cash. 


TOLD  TO  THE  MISSIONARY  37 

An'  it's  cash  that  counts  —  clean  cash  an'  grit; 

An'  Watch  has  got  th'  grit,  I  'low, 
An'  me  th'  cash  —  an'  we  two 's  pards  — 

But  he 's  th'  best,  I  tell  ye  now. 

An'  when  Life's  fight  is  fit  an'  done, 
An'  we  go  'crost  th'  Great  Divide, 

W'y  Watch  an'  me  has  made  it  up 
That  we'll  be  planted  side  by  side. 

Sharlot  M.  Hall 

TOLD  TO  THE  MISSIONARY 

Just  look  'ee  here,  Mr.  Preacher,  you  're  a-goin'  a 

bit  too  fur; 
There  is  n't  the  man  as  is  livin'  as  I  'd  let  say  a  word 

agen  her. 
She 's  a  rum-lookin'  bitch,  that  I  own  to,  and  there 

is  a  fierce  look  in  her  eyes, 
But  if  any  cove  says  as  she 's  vicious,  I  sez  in  his 

teeth  he  lies. 
Soh!  Gently,  old  'ooman;  come  here,  now,  and  set 

by  my  side  on  the  bed ; 
I  wonder  who'll  have  yer,  my  beauty,  when  him 

as  you  're  all  to 's  dead. 
There,  stow  yer  palaver  a  minit;  I  knows  as  my  end 

is  nigh; 

Is  a  cove  to  turn  round  on  his  dog,  like,  just  'cos 
_ ,    he 's  goin'  to  die? 

Oh,  of  course,  I  was  sartin  you  'd  say  it.  It 's  allus 

the  same  with  you. 
Give  it  us  straight,  now,  guv'nor  —  what  would 

you  have  me  do? 


38  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Think  of  my  soul?  I  do,  sir.  Think  of  my  Saviour? 

Right! 
Don't  be  afeard  of  the  bitch,  sir;  she's  not  a-goin' 

to  bite. 

Tell  me  about  my  Saviour  —  tell  me  that  tale  agen, 
How  He  prayed  for  the  coves  as  killed  Him,  and 

died  for  the  worst  of  men. 
It 's  a  tale  as  I  always  liked,  sir;  and  bound  for  the 

'ternal  shore, 
I  thinks  it  aloud  to  myself,  sir,  and  I  likes  it  more 

and  more. 

I  've  thumbed  it  out  in  the  Bible,  and  I  know  it  now 

by  heart, 
And  it's  put  the  steam  in  my  boiler,  and  made  me 

ready  to  start. 
I  ain't  not  afraid  to  die  now;  I  've  been  a  bit  bad  in 

my  day, 
But  I  know  when  I  knock  at  them  portals  there's 

One  as  won't  say  me  nay. 
And  it's  thinkin'  about  that  story,  and  all  as  He  did 

for  us, 
As  makes  me  so  fond  o'  my  dawg,  sir;  especially 

now  I'm  wus; 
For  a-savin'  o'  folks  who'd  kill  us  is  a  beautiful  act, 

the  which 
I  never  heard  tell  on  o'  no  one,  'cept  o'  Him  and  o' 

that  there  bitch. 

*T  was  five  years  ago  come  Chrismus,  maybe  you 

remember  the  row, 
There  was  scares  about  hydryphoby  —  same  as 

there  be  just  now; 


TOLD  TO  THE  MISSIONARY  39 

And  the  bobbies  came  down  on  us  costers  —  came 
in  a  regular  wax, 

And  them  as  'ud  got  no  license  was  summerned  to 
pay  the  tax. 

But  I  had  a  friend  among  'em,  and  he  come  in  a 
friendly  way, 

And  he  sez,  "  You  must  settle  your  dawg,  Bill,  un- 
less you've  a  mind  to  pay." 

The  missus  was  dyin'  wi'  fever  —  I'd  made  a  mis- 
take in  my  pitch, 

I  could  n't  afford  to  keep  her,  so  I  sez,  "I'll  drownd 
the  bitch." 

I  was  n't  a-goin'  to  lose  her,  I  warn't  such  a  brute, 

you  bet, 
As  to  leave  her  to  die  by  inches  o'  hunger,  and  cold, 

and  wet; 
I  never  said  now 't  to  the  missus  —  we  both  on  us 

liked  her  well  - 
But  I  takes  her  the  follerin'  Sunday  down  to  the 

Grand  Canell. 
I  gets  her  tight  by  the  collar  —  the  Lord  forgive 

my  sin ! 
And,  kneelin'  down  on  the  towpath,  I  ducks  the 

poor  beast  in. 
She  gave  just  a  sudden  whine  like,  then  a  look 

comes  into  her  eyes 
As  '11  last  forever  in  mine,  sir,  up  to  the  day  I  dies. 

And  a  chill  come  over  my  'eart  then,  and  thinkin' 

I  'eard  'er  moan, 
I  held  'er  below  the  water,  beating  'er  skull  with  a 

stone. 


40  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

You  can  see  the  mark  of  it  now,  sir  —  that  place 
on  the  top  of  'er  'ed  — 

And  sudden  she  ceased  to  struggle,  and  I  fancied  as 
she  was  dead. 

I  shall  never  know  'ow  it  happened,  but  goin'  to 
lose  my  hold, 

My  knees  slipped  over  the  towpath,  and  into  the 
stream  I  rolled; 

Down  like  a  log  I  went,  sir,  and  my  eyes  were  filled 
with  mud, 

And  the  water  was  tinged  above  me  with  a  mur- 
dered creeter's  blood. 

I  gave  myself  up  for  lost  then,  and  I  cursed  in  my 

wild  despair, 
And  sudden  I  rose  to  the  surface,  and  a  su'thin' 

grabbed  at  my  'air, 
Grabbed  at  my  'air  and  loosed  it,  and  grabbed  me 

agen  by  the  throat, 
And  she  was  a-holdin'  my  'ed  up,  and  somehow  I 

kep'  afloat. 
I  can't  tell  yer  'ow  she  done  it,  for  I  never  knowed 

no  more 
Till  somebody  seized  my  collar,  and  give  me  a  lug 

ashore; 
And  my  head  was  queer  and  dizzy,  but  I  see  as  the 

bitch  was  weak, 
And  she  lay  on  her  side  a-pantin',  waitin'  for  me  to 

speak. 

What  did  I  do  with  'er,  eh?    You'd  a-'ardly  need 

to  ax, 
But  I  sold  my  barrer  a  Monday,  and  paid  the 

bloomin'  tax. 


MY  FOX  TERRIER  41 

That's  right,  Mr.  Preacher,  pat  her  —  you  ain't  not 

af eard  of  her  now !  — 
Dang  this  'ere  tellin'  of  stories  —  look  at  the  muck 

on  my  brow. 

I'm  weaker,  an' weaker,  an'  weaker;  I  fancy  the 
end  ain't  fur, 

But  you  know  why  'ere  on  my  deathbed  I  think  o* 
the  Lord  and  'er, 

And  He  who,  by  men's  hands  tortured,  uttered  that 
prayer  divine, 

'Ull  pardon  me  linkin'  Him  like  with  a  dawg  as  for- 
gave like  mine. 

When  the  Lord  in  his  mercy  calls  me  to  my  last 
eternal  pitch, 

I  know  as  you  '11  treat  her  kindly  —  promise  to  take 
my  bitch ! 

("  George  R.  Sirns 


MY  FOX  TERRIER 

A  little  demon  in  defense, 

Brave  as  a  lion  he ; 
I  wish  I  had  the  courage 

Of  this  atom  on  my  knee. 

A  little  universe  of  love, 

Unselfish  as  the  sea; 
I  wish  I  did  by  others 

As  he  has  done  by  me. 

A  little  lump  of  loyalty 
No  power  could  turn  from  me; 


42  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

I  wish  I  had  a  heart  as  true, 
From  fear  and  favor  free. 

A  little  fountain  full  of  faith, 

Forgiveness,  charity; 
I  wish  I  had  his  patience 

And  true  nobility. 

/     A  little  flash  of  fire  and  life, 

Whatever  the  summons  be; 
I  wish  that  I  could  face  the  world 
With  half  his  energy. 

A  little  white  fox  terrier, 
In  whose  brown  eyes  I  see 

The  windows  of  a  faithful  soul 
Too  large  to  live  in  me. 

Anonymous 

TO  A  LITTLE  DEAF  DOG 

What  do  you  think,  dear  little  friend, 
Of  the  silence  that  has  come? 

Why  do  you  think  —  poor  little  friend  — 
The  voices  loved  are  dumb? 

Does  the  simple  creed  of  perfect  love, 
That  held  you  firm  all  through, 

Still  fill  your  faithful  little  life 
And  make  it  right  for  you? 

From  your  deep  eyes  the  same  old  trust 

Beams  up  into  my  own, 
And  from  the  joy  that  in  them  lies  — 

You  do  not  feel  alone. 


TO  MY  SETTER,  SCOUT  43 

But  when  with  head  upon  my  knee 

You  gaze  so  wistfully, 
I  hope,  old  man,  you  understand 

The  fault  lies  not  in  me. 

I  trust  that  you  who  know  so  much. 

And  yet  so  little  too, 
Through  your  sweet  dog  philosophy 

Know  that  my  love  holds  true. 

Ethellyn  Brewer  DeFoe 


TO  MY  SETTER,  SCOUT 

You  are  a  tried  and  loyal  friend ; 
The  end 

Of  life  will  find  you  leal,  unweary 
Of  tested  bonds  that  naught  can  rend, 

And  e'en  if  years  be  sad  and  dreary 
Our  plighted  friendship  will  extend. 

A  truer  friend  man  never  had; 
'T  is  sad 

That  'mongst  all  earthly  friends  the  fewest 
Unfaithful  ones  should  thus  be  clad 

In  canine  lowliness;  yet  truest 
They,  be  their  treatment  good  or  bad.  . 

Within  your  eyes  methinks  I  find 
A  kind 

And  thoughtful  look  of  speechless  feeling 
That  mem'ry's  loosened  cords  unbind, 

And  let  the  dreamy  past  come  stealing 
Through  your  dumb,  reflective  mind. 


44  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Scout,  my  trusty  friend,  can  it  be 
You  see 

Again,  in  retrospective  dreaming, 
The  run,  the  woodland,  and  the  lea, 

With  past  autumnal  sunshine  streaming 
O'er  ev'ry  frost-dyed  field  and  tree? 

Or  do  you  see  now  once  again 
The  glen 

And  fern,  the  highland  and  the  thistle? 
And  do  you  still  remember  when 

We  heard  the  bright-eyed  woodcock  whistle 
Down  by  the  rippling  shrub-edged  fen? 

I  see  you  turn  a  listening  ear 
To  hear 

The  quail  upon  the  flower-pied  heather; 
But,  doggie,  wait  till  uplands  sere 

And  then  the  autumn's  waning  weather 
Will  bring  the  sport  we  hold  so  dear. 

Then  we  will  hunt  the  loamy  swale 
And  trail 

The  snipe,  their  cunning  wiles  overcoming; 
And  oft  will  flush  the  bevied  quail 

And  hear  the  partridge  slowly  drumming 
Dull  echoes  in  the  leaf-strewn  dale. 

When  wooded  hills  with  crimson  light 
Are  bright, 

We'll  stroll  where  trees  and  vines  are  growing; 
And  see  birds  warp  their  southern  flight 

At  sundown,  when  the  Day  King 's  throwing 
Sly  kisses  to  the  Queen  of  Night. 


AVE  CAESAR!  45 


But  when  the  leaves  of  life's  fair  dell 

Have  fell, 

And  death  comes  with  the  autumn's  ev'n 
And  separates  us,  who  can  tell 

But  that,  within  the  realm  of  heaven, 
We  both  together  there  will  dwell? 

Frank  H.  Selden 


AVE  CAESAR! 

MAY  20,  1910 

Full  in  the  splendor  of  this  morning's  hour, 
With  tramp  of  men  and  roll  of  ruffled  drums, 
In  what  a  pomp  and  pageantry  of  power, 
Borne  to  his  grave,  our  lord  King  Edward  comes ! 

¥  j 

In  flashing  gold  and  high  magnificence, 
Lo,  the  proud  cavalcade  of  comrade  Kings, 
Met  here  to  do  the  dead  King  reverence, 
Its  solemn  tribute  of  affection  brings. 

•     ;.  •  ( 

Heralds  and  Pursuivants  and  Men-at-Arms, 
Sultan  and  Paladin  and  Potentate, 
Scarred  Captains  who  have  baffled  war's  alarms 
And  Courtiers  glittering  in  their  robes  of  state. 

All  in  their  blazoned  ranks  with  eyes  cast  down, 
Slow  pacing  in  their  sorrow  pass  along, 
Where  that  which  bore  the  scepter  and  the  crown 
Cleaves  at  their  head  the  silence  of  the  throng. 

And  in  a  space  behind  the  passing  bier, 
Looking  and  longing  for  his  lord  in  vain, 


46  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

A  little  playmate  whom  the  King  held  dear, 
Caesar,  the  terrier,  tugs  his  silver  chain. 


Hail,  Caesar !  lonely  little  Caesar,  hail ! 

Little  for  you  the  gathered  Kings  avail. 

Little  you  reck  as  meekly  past  you  go, 

Of  that  solemnity  of  formal  woe. 

In  the  strange  silence,  lo,  you  prick  your  ear 

For  one  loved  voice,  and  that  you  shall  not  hear. 

So  when  the  monarchs,  with  their  bright  array 

Of  gold  and  steel  and  stars,  have  passed  away, 

When,  to  their  wonted  use  restored  again, 

All  things  go  duly  in  their  ordered  train, 

You  shall  appeal  at  each  excluding  door, 

Search  through  the  rooms  and  every  haunt  explore; 

From  lawn  to  lawn,  from  path  to  path  pursue 

The  well-loved  form  that  still  escapes  your  view. 

At  every  tree  some  happy  memories  rise 

To  stir  your  tail  and  animate  your  eyes, 

And  at  each  turn,  with  gathering  strength  endued, 

Hope,  still  frustrated  must  be  still  renewed. 

How  should  you  rest  from  your  appointed  task 

Till  chance  restore  the  happiness  you  ask, 

Take  from  your  heart  the  burden,  ease  your  pain, 

And  grant  you  to  your  master's  side  again, 

Proud  and  constant  if  but  you  could  beguile 

His  voice  to  flatter  and  his  face  to  smile? 

Caesar,  the  kindly  days  may  bring  relief; 
Swiftly  they  pass  and  dull  the  edge  of  grief. 
You,  too,  resigned  at  last  may  school  your  mind 
To  miss  the  comrade  whom  you  cannot  find, 


JUST  PLAIN  YELLOW  47 

Never  forgetting  but  as  one  who  feels 

The  world  has  secrets  which  no  skill  reveals. 

Henceforth,  whate'er  the  ruthless  fates  rnay  give, 

You  shall  be  loved  and  cherished  while  you  live. 

Reft  of  ybur  master,  little  dog  forlorn, 

To  one  dear  mistress  you  shall  now  be  sworn, 

And  in  her  queenly  service  you  shall  dwell 

At  rest  with  one  who  loved  your  master  well. 

And  she,  that  gentle  lady,  shall  control 

The  faithful  Kingdom  of  a  true  dog's  soul, 

And  for  the  past's  dear  sake  shall  still  defend 

Caesar,  the  dead  King's  humble  little  friend. 

R.C.  Lehmann 


JUST  PLAIN  YELLOW 

He 's  just  plain  yellow:  no  "  blue-ribbon"  breed. 
In  disposition  —  well,  a  trifle  gruff. 
Outside  he's  "  tried  and  true."  His  coat  is  rough. 
To  bark  at  night  and  sleep  by  day,  his  creed. 
Yet,  when  his  soft  brown  eyes  so  dumbly  plead 
For  one  caress  from  my  too-busy  hand, 
I  wonder  from  what  far  and  unknown  land 
Came  the  true  soul,  which  in  his  gaze  I  read. 
Whence  all  his  loyalty  and  faithful  zeal? 
Why  does  he  share  my  joyous  mood  and  gay? 
Why  mourn  with  me  when  I  perchance  do  mourn? 
When  hunger-pressed,  why  scorn  a  bounteous  meal 
That  by  my  side  he  may  pursue  his  way? 
Whence  came  his  noble  soul,  and  where  its  bourne  ? 
Anna  Hadley  Middlemas 


48  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

CHARITY'S  EYE 

One  evening  Jesus  lingered  in  the  market-place 
Teaching  the  people  parables  of  truth  and  grace, 
When  in  the  square  remote  a  crowd  was  seen  to 

rise, 
And  stop  with  loathing  gestures  and  abhorring 

cries. 

The  Master  and  his  meek  disciples  went  to  see 
What  cause  for  this  commotion  and  disgust  could  be, 
And  found  a  poor  dead  dog  beside  the  gutter  laid  — 
Revolting  sight!  at  which  each  face  its  hate  be- 
trayed. 

One  held  his  nose,  one  shut  his  eyes,  one  turned 

away, 

And  all  among  themselves  began  to  say: 
"  Detested  creature !  he  pollutes  the  earth  and  air ! " 
"  His  eyes  are  blear  I"  "  His  ears  are  foul!"  "His 

ribs  are  bare ! " 
"  In  his  torn  hide  there's  not  a  decent  shoe-string 

left, 

No  doubt  the  execrable  cur  was  hung  for  theft." 
Then  Jesus  spake,  and  dropped  on  him  the  saving 

wreath : 
"  Even  pearls  are  dark  before  the  whiteness  of  his 

teeth." 

The  pelting  crowd  grew  silent  and  ashamed,like  one 
Rebuked  by  sight  of  wisdom  higher  than  his  own; 
And  one  exclaimed:  "  No  creature  so  accursed  can 

be 

But  some  good  thing  in  him  a  loving  eye  will  see." 
William  Rounseville  Alger 


OLD  DOG  TRAY          49 

OLD  DOG  TRAY 

The  morn  of  life  is  past, 
And  evening  comes  at  last; 

It  brings  me  a  dream  of  a  once  happy  day, 
Of  merry  forms  I  've  seen 
Upon  the  village  green, 
Sporting  with  my  old  dog  Tray. 
Old  dog  Tray's  ever  faithful; 

Grief  cannot  drive  him  away; 
He 's  gentle,  he  is  kind, 
I'll  never,  never  find 

A  better  friend  than  old  dog  Tray. 

The  forms  I  called  my  own 
Have  vanished  one  by  one, 
The  lov'd  ones,  the  dear  ones  have  all 

passed  away; 

Their  happy  smiles  have  flown, 
Their  gentle  voices  gone, 
I've  nothing  left  but  old  dog  Tray. 
Old  dog  Tray,  etc. 

When  thoughts  recall  the  past, 
His  eyes  are  on  me  cast, 

I  know  that  he  feels  what  my  breaking 

heart  would  say; 
Although  he  cannot  speak, 
I'll  vainly,  vainly  seek 
A  better  friend  than  old  dog  Tray. 
Old  dog  Tray,  etc. 

Stephen  Collins  Foster 


50  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

THE  OLD  SHEEP  WAGON 

I  have  heard  men  long  for  a  palace  but  I  want  no 

such  abode, 
For  wealth  is  a  source  of  trouble  and  a  jeweled 

crown  is  a  load; 
I'll  take  my  home  in  the  open,  with  a  mixture  of 

sun  and  rain  — 

Just  give  me  my  old  sheep  wagon  on  the  bound- 
less Wyoming  plain. 

With  the  calling  sheep  around  me  and  my  collie's 

head  on  my  knees, 
I  float  my  cigarette  smoke  on  the  sage-scented 

prairie  breeze; 
And  at  night,  when  the  band  is  bedded,  I  creep  like 

a  tired  child, 

To  my  tarp  in  the  friendly  wagon,  alone  on  the 
sheep  range  wild. 

Music  and  art  I  am  missing?  —  but  what  great 

symphony 
Can  equal  the  harps  of  nature  that  are  twanged  by 

the  plains-wind  free? 
And  where  is  the  master  of  color  to  match,  though 

for  years  he  tried, 

The  purples  that  veil  yon  mesa,  at  the  hour  of 
even-tide? 

I  have  had  my  fill  of  mankind,  and  my  dog  is  my 

only  friend, 

So  I'm  waiting,  here  in  the  sagebrush,  for  the 
judgment  the  Lord  may  send; 


CHANCE  51 

They'll  find  me  dead  in  my  wagon,  out  here  on  the 

hill-tops  brown, 
But  I  reckon  I  '11  die  as  easy  as  I  would  in  a  bed  in 

town  ! 


Arthur  Chapman 


LUATH 
(FROM  "THE  TWA  DOGS") 

He  was  a  gash  an'  faithfu'  tyke 
As  ever  lap  a  sheugh  or  dyke. 
His  honest,  sonsie,  baws'nt  face 
Ay  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place; 
His  breast  was  white,  his  tousie  back 
Weel  clad  wi'  coat  o'  glossy  black; 
His  gawsie  tail,  wi'  upward  curl, 
Hung  owre  his  hurdies  wi'  a  swirl. 

Robert  Burns 

CHANCE 

Sixty  miles  from  a  homestead,  straight  as  the  crow 

can  fly, 
We  camped  in  the  Deadwood  foothills.  Mineral? 

Yes  —  and  gold. 
Three  of  us  in  the  outfit;  the  burro  and  Chance 

and  I; 

Chance  was  n't  more  than  a  pup  then,  goin'  on 
two  year  old. 

Already  he  knew  the  music  that  a  desert  rattler 

makes 

When,  glimmerin'  under  a  yucca,  he'd  seen  'em 
coil  to  spring; 


52  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

But  he  did  n't  need  no  teachin'  to  keep  him  away 

from  snakes; 

You  should  seen  his  tail  go  under  when  he  heard 
a  rattler  sing  I 

Town-folks  called  him  the  "  Killer,"  and  I  reckon 

that  they  was  right; 
Deep  in  the  chest,  wolf-muscled,  and  quicker 

than  fire  in  tow; 
But  one  of  the  kind  that  never  went  out  of  his  way 

to  fight, 

Though  he'd  tackle  a  corral  of  wild-cats  if  I  gave 
him  the  word  to  go. 

There  was  more  to  him  than  his  fightin'  —  he  was 

wise;  it  was  right  good  fun 
To  see  him  usin'  his  head-piece  when  the  sun 

was  a-fryin'  eggs, 
Trailin'  along  with  the  outfit  and  cheatin'  the  desert 

sun 

By  keepin'  into  the  shadow  right  clost  to  my 
burro's  legs. 
i 
I  knew  that  some  day  I  'd  lose  him,  for  the  desert 

she  don't  wait  long;  — 
Hosses  and  dogs  and  humans,  none  of  'em  get 

too  old; 
Gold?  Looks  good  in  a  story  and  sounds  right  good 

in  a  song, 

But  the  men  that  go  out  and  get  it  —  they  know 
what  they  pay  for  gold! 


CHANCE  53 


If  I  struck  a  ledge  that  showed  me  a  million,  — 

the  whole  thing  mine,  — 
I  'd  turn  it  over  to-morrow  (and  never  so  much  as 

glance 
At  the  papers  the  law-sharks  frame  up  and  hand  you 

a  pen  to  sign) 

For  a  look  at  my  old  side-pardner,  the  "  Killer," 
that  I  called  Chance. 

Why?  Well,  my  eyes,  one  mornin',  was  blinkin'  to 

shake  a  dream, 
And  Chance  was  sleepin'  beside  me,  breathin'  it 

long  and  deep, 
When  I  saw  a  awful  somethin*  and  I  felt  I  was  like 

to  scream  . . . 

There  was  a  big,  brown  rattler  coiled  in  my  arm, 
asleep. 

Move  . . .  and  I  knew  he'd  get  me.  Waitin',  I  held 

my  breath, 
Feelin'  the  sun  get  warmer,  wonderin'  what  to 

do, 
Tryin*  to  keep  my  eyes  off  that  shinin'  and  sudden 

death, 

When  Chance  he  lifted  his  head  up  and  slow 
come  the  rattler's,  too. 

"Take  him!"  I  tried  to  whisper.  Mebby  I  did.  I 

know 

Chance's  neck  was  a-bristle  and  his  eyes  on  the 
coiled-up  snake; 


54  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Its  head  was  a-movin'  gentle  —  like  weeds  when 

the  south  winds  blow  — 

When  Chance  jumped  in  ...  the  "  Killer.".  .  . 
Do  that  for  a  pardner's  sake? 

I'd  like  to  think  that  I'd  do  it! ...  Up  there  in  the 

far-off  blue 
Old  Marster  He  sits  a-jedgin'  such  things.  Can 

you  tell  me  why, 
Knowin'  what  he  had  comin',  he  went  at  it  fightin'- 

true; 

Tore  that  snake  into  ribbons,  then  crawled  to  the 
brush  to  die? 

Never  come  near  me  after;  knew  that  he'd  got  his 

call. 
Howcome  I  went  and  shot  him.  God !  I  can  see 

his  eyes!      :i| 
See  where  those  pointed  shadows  run  down  that 

canon  wall? 

That  there 's  his  tombstone,  stranger,  bigger  than 
money  buys. 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 


BESS 

The  collie  girl  had  the  sense  bred  out  of  her, 
But  she  had  head  and  nose  and  points  enough 
To  make  her  a  queen,  a  fine  queen  with  a  ruff 
Of  satin  and  gold,  you'd  say,  instead  of  fur. 

She  did  n't  deserve,  no  doubt,  the  hate  she  got 
She  was  so  shy  she'd  keep  for  whole  days  hid. 


BESS  55 

Folks  wanted  a  dog  to  do  better  than  she  did, 
And  thought  it  stubborn  —  ungrateful  like  as  not. 

Dede  Graf,  the  new  man,  set  himself  to  feed 
And  win  her,  and  thought  he'd  keep  her  in  the 

shed; 
"  Somebody's  skeert  her,"  he'd  say,  and  wag  his 

head. 
He'd  no  more  luck  than  others  had,  had  Dede, 

Until  the  poor,  lonesome,  howling  girl  got  big, 
And  no  doubt  dreamful  of  her  pups  to  come. 
One  night  she  crept  up  shivering  and  dumb 
And  he  saw  her  crouching  underneath  the  rig. 

Lord  —  when  he  'd  touched  her  once  she  was  like  a 

child! 

She  'd  cry  and  laugh  together  for  the  fun 
Of  feeling  his  hand  on  her,  and  then  she  'd  run 
Like  a  curled  streak  of  gold  that  made  him  wild. 

Before  the  pups  came  he  had  her  at  his  call, 

And  other  folk  grew  soft  to  her  a  bit. 

She  was  a  beauty,  that  was  all  of  it, 

And  Dede  was  envied  while  the  dogs  were  small. 

She  weaned  them  and  two  died  and  the  rest  were 

given; 

And  Bess  got  offish  as  she  was  before. 
Dede  lured  and  wheedled  and  shook  his  fist  and 

swore  — • 
His    talk  was    somewhat    strong  when    he  was 

driven. 


56  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

It  went  on  that  way  for  three  years  about. 
She  Jd  come  to  him  and  be  a  little  saint, 
Having  her  young;  and  then  the  crazy  taint 
Would  get  her  when  the  young  ones  were  turned 
out. 

Dede  was  a  Job  for  patience,  and  no  less, 
When  she  'd  go  shy  again.  He  'd  curse  her  leather, 
Then  at  the  sight  of  her  like  a  tawny  feather 
Off  in  the  field,  he  'd  whine,  "  Hyuh  Bess !  Come 
Bess!" 

He  must  have  got  to  know  her. . . .  When  she  died  — 
The  fellow  was  five  feet  ten  and  like  an  ox; 
Fearful  to  see  too;  pitted  by  smallpox  — 
Well,  he  broke  up  for  days  that  time  and  cried. 

Orrick  Johns 

SHEEP-HERDING 

A  gray,  slow-moving,  dust-bepowdered  wave, 

That  on  the  edges  breaks  to  scattering  spray, 
Round  which  the  faithful  collies  wheel  and  bark 

To  scurry  in  the  laggard  feet  that  stray: 
A  babel  of  complaining  tongues  that  make 

The  dull  air  weary  with  their  ceaseless  fret; 
Brown  hills  akin  to  those  of  Galilee 

On  which  the  shepherds  tend  their  charges  yet. 

The  long,  hot  days;  the  stark,  wind-beaten  nights, 
No  human  presence,  human  sight  or  sound; 

Grim,  silent  land  of  wasted  hopes,  where  they 
Who  came  for  gold  oft-times  have  madness 
found; 


TRAY  57 

A  bleating  horror  that  fore-gathers  speech; 

Freezing  the  word  that  from  the  lip  would  pass; 
And  sends  the  herdsman  grovelling  with  his  sheep, 

Face  down  and  beast-like  on  the  trampled  grass. 

*     *     *  , ,  u- 

The  collies  halt;  the  slow  herd  sways  and  reels, 

Huddled  in  fright  above  a  low  ravine, 
Where  wild  with  thirst  a  herd  unshepherded 

Beats  up  and  down  —  with  something  dark 

between : 
A  narrow  circle  that  they  will  not  cross  — 

A  thing  to  stop  the  maddest  in  their  run  — 
A  guarding  dog  too  weak  to  lift  his  head, 

Who  licks  a  still  hand  shrivelled  in  the  sun. 

Sharlot  M.  Hall 

TRAY 

"A  beggar-child 

Sat  on  a  quay's  edge:  like  a  bird 
Sang  to  herself  at  careless  play, 
And  fell  into  the  stream.  '  Dismay ! 

Help !  you  standers-by ! '  None  stirred. 

"Bystanders  reason,  think  of  wives 
And  children  ere  they  risk  their  lives. 
Over  the  balustrade  has  bounced 
A  mere  instinctive  dog,  and  pounced 
Plumb  on  the  prize.  '  How  well  he  dives ! 

"'Up  he  comes  with  the  child,  see,  tight 
In  mouth,  alive  too,  clutched  from  quite 
A  depth  of  ten  feet  —  twelve,  I  bet ! 
Good  dog!  What!  off  again?  There's  yet 
Another  child  to  save?  All  right ! 


58  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

"'How  strange  we  saw  no  other  fall! 

It  's  instinct  in  the  animal. 

Good  dog!  But  he  Js  a  long  while  under: 
If  he  got  drowned  I  should  not  wonder  — 

Strong  current,  that  against  the  wall ! 

"  'Here  he  comes,  holds  in  mouth  this  time 
—  What  may  the  thing  be?  Well,  that's  prime! 
Now,  did  you  ever?  Reason  reigns 
In  man  alone,  since  all  Tray's  pains 
Have  fished  —  the  child's  doll  from  the  slime ! ' 

"  And  so,  amid  the  laughter  gay, 
Trotted  my  hero  off,  —  old  Tray,  — 
Till  somebody,  prerogatived 
With  reason,  reasoned :  *  Why  he  dived, 
His  brain  would  show  us,  I  should  say. 

"  'John,  go  and  catch  —  or,  if  needs  be, 
Purchase  that  animal  for  me ! 
By  vivisection,  at  expense 
Of  half-an-hour  and  eighteen  pence, 
How  brain  secretes  dog's  soul,  we  '11  see ! ' " 

Robert  Browning 

ABANDONMENT 

My  dear,  when  I  leave  you 
I  always  drop  a  bit  of  me  — 
A  holy  glove  or  sainted  shoe  — 
Your  wistful  corse  I  leave  it  to : 
For  all  your  soul  has  gone  to  see 
How  I  could  have  the  stony  heart 
So  to  abandon  you. 


TO  FLUSH  59 


My  dear,  when  you  leave  me 
You  drop  no  glove,  no  sainted  shoe  — 
And  yet  you  know  that  humans  be 
Mere  blocks  of  dull  monstrosity, 
Whose  spirits  cannot  follow  you, 
When  you  're  away,  with  all  their  hearts 
As  yours  can  follow  me. 

My  dear,  since  we  must  leave 
(One  sorry  day)  I  you,  you  me; 
I'll  learn  your  wistful  way  to  grieve; 
Then  through  the  ages  we  '11  retrieve 
Each  other's  scent  and  company; 
And  longing  shall  not  pull  my  heart  — 
As  now  you  pull  my  sleeve ! 

John  Galsworthy 

ROYALTY 

Two  tall  dogs  on  the  road  to  Georgetown 
And  the  wide  sky,  grey  and  steep; 

Two  tall  dogs  on  the  road  to  Georgetown 
With  gold  coats  fit  to  reap 

For  a  lady's  collar  or  a  queen's  best  muff, 
Or  the  bed  of  a  new-born  child  — 

And  the  bitterest  traveller  up  from  Georgetown 
Stopped  in  the  way  and  smiled. 

Orrick  Johns 

TO  FLUSH 

Loving  friend,  the  gift  of  one 
Who  her  own  true  faith  has  run 
Through  thy  lower  nature, 


60  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Be  my  benediction  said 
With  my  hand  upon  thy  head, 
Gentle  fellow-creature ! 

Like  a  lady's  ringlets  brown, 
Flow  thy  silken  ears  adown 

Either  side  demurely 
Of  thy  silver-suited  breast, 
Shining  out  from  all  the  rest 

Of  thy  body  purely. 


Leap !  thy  broad  tail  waves  a  light  — 
Leap !  thy  slender  feet  are  bright  — 

Canopied  in  fringes; 
Leap !  those  tasselled  ears  of  thine 
Flicker  strangely,  fair  and  fine, 

Down  their  golden  inches. 

Yet,  my  pretty,  sportive  friend, 
Little  is 't  to  such  an  end 

That  I  praise  thy  rareness; 
Other  dogs  may  be  thy  peers 
Haply  in  these  drooping  ears 

And  this  glossy  fairness. 

But  of  thee  it  shall  be  said : 

"  This  dog  watched  beside  a  bed, 

Day  and  night  unweary, 
Watched  within  a  curtained  room 
Where  no  sunbeam  brake  the  gloom, 

Round  the  sick  and  dreary." 


TO  FLUSH  61 


Roses,  gathered  for  a  vase, 
In  that  chamber  died  apace, 

Beam  and  breeze  resigning; 
This  dog  only  waited  on, 
Knowing  that  when  light  is  gone, 

Love  remains  for  shining. 

Other  dogs  in  thymy  dew 

Tracked  the  hares,  and  followed  through 

Sunny  moor  or  meadow: 
This  dog  only  crept  and  crept 
Next  a  languid  cheek  that  slept, 

Sharing  in  the  shadow. 

Other  dogs  of  loyal  cheer 
Bounded  at  the  whistle  clear, 

Up  the  woodside  hieing: 
This  dog  only  watched  in  reach 
Of  a  faintly  uttered  speech 

Or  a  louder  sighing. 

And  if  one  or  two  quick  tears 
Dropped  upon  his  glossy  ears, 

Or  a  sigh  came  double, 
Up  he  sprang  in  eager  haste, 
Fawning,  fondling,  breathing  fast, 

In  a  tender  trouble. 

And  this  dog  was  satisfied 
If  a  pale,  thin  hand  would  glide 
Down  his  dewlaps  sloping,  — 


62  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Which  he  pushed  his  nose  within, 
After  platforming  his  chin 
On  the  palm  left  open. 

This  dog,  if  a  friendly  voice 
Call  him  now  to  blither  choice 

Than  such  chamber-keeping, 
"  Come  out! "  praying  from  the  door, 
Presseth  backward  as  before, 

Up  against  me  leaping. 

Therefore  to  this  dog  will  I, 
Tenderly,  not  scornfully, 

Render  praise  and  favor: 
With  my  hand  upon  his  head, 
Is  my  benediction  said 

Therefore  and  forever. 

And  because  he  loves  me  so, 
Better  than  his  kind  will  do 

Often  man  or  woman, 
Give  I  back  more  love  again 
Than  dogs  often  take  of  men, 

Leaning  from  my  human. 


Mock  I  thee,  in  wishing  weal? 
Tears  are  in  my  eyes  to  feel 

Thou  art  made  so  straitly: 
Blessings  need  must  straiten  too, 
Little  canst  thou  joy  or  do 

Thou  who  lovest  greatly. 


TO  RUFUS  —  A  SPANIEL  63 

Yet  be  blessed  to  the  height 
Of  all  good  and  all  delight 

Pervious  to  thy  nature; 
Only  loved  beyond  that  line, 
With  a  love  that  answers  thine, 

Loving  fellow-creature ! 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

TO  RUFUS  —  A  SPANIEL 

Rufus,  a  bright  New  Year !  A  savoury  stew, 

Bones,  broth  and  biscuits,  is  prepared  for  you. 

See  how  it  steams  in  your  enamelled  dish, 

Mixed  in  each  part  according  to  your  wish. 

Hide  in  your  straw  the  bones  you  cannot  crunch — 

They'll  come  in  handy  for  to-morrow's  lunch; 

Abstract  with  care  each  tasty  scrap  of  meat, 

Remove  each  biscuit  to  a  fresh  retreat 

(A  dog,  I  judge,  would  deem  himself  disgraced 

Who  ate  a  biscuit  where  he  found  it  placed) ; 

Then  nuzzle  round  and  make  your  final  sweep, 

And  sleep,  replete,  your  after-dinner  sleep. 

High  in  our  hall  we  've  piled  the  fire  with  logs 

For  you,  the  doyen  of  our  corps  of  dogs. 

There,  when  the  stroll  that  health  demands  is  done, 

Your  right  to  ease  by  due  exertion  won, 

There  shall  you  come,  and  on  your  long-haired  mat, 

Thrice  turning  round,  shall  tread  the  jungle  flat, 

And,  rhythmically  snoring,  dream  away 

The  peaceful  evening  of  your  New  Year's  day. 

Rufus !  there  are  who  hesitate  to  own 
Merits,  they  say,  your  master  sees  alone. 


64  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

They  judge  you  stupid,  for  you  show  no  bent 
To  any  poodle-dog  accomplishment. 
Your  stubborn  nature  never  stooped  to  learn 
Tricks  by  which  mumming  dogs  their  biscuits  earn. 
Men  mostly  find  you,  if  they  change  their  seat, 
Couchant,  obnoxious  to  their  blundering  feet; 
Then,  when  a  door  is  closed,  you  steadily 
Misjudge  the  side  on  which  you  ought  to  be; 
Yelping  outside  when  all  your  friends  are  in, 
You  raise  the  echoes  with  your  ceaseless  din, 
Or,  always  wrong,  but  turn  and  turn  about, 
Howling  inside  when  all  the  world  is  out. 
They  scorn  your  gestures  and  interpret  ill 
Your  humble  signs  of  friendship  and  good-will ; 
Laugh  at  your  gambols,  and  pursue  with  jeers 
The  ringlets  clustered  on  your  spreading  ears; 
See  without  sympathy  your  sore  distress 
When  Ray  obtains  the  coveted  caress, 
And  you,  a  jealous  lump  of  growl  and  glare, 
Hide  from  the  world  your  head  beneath  a  chair. 
They  say  your  legs  are  bandy  —  so  they  are : 
Nature  so  formed  them  that  they  might  go  far; 
They  cannot  brook  your  music;  they  assail 
The  joyful  quiverings  of  your  stumpy  tail  — 
In  short,  in  one  anathema  confound 
Shape,  mind,  and  heart  and  all,  my  little  hound. 
Well,  let  them  rail.  If,  since  your  life  began, 
Beyond  the  customary  lot  of  man 
Staunchness  was  yours ;  if  of  your  faithful  heart 
Malice  and  scorn  could  never  claim  a  part; 
If  in  your  master,  loving  while  you  love, 
You  own  no  fault  or  own  it  to  forgive; 
If,  as  you  lay  your  head  upon  his  knee, 
Your  deep-drawn  sighs  proclaim  your  sympathy; 


THE  BLOODHOUND  65 

If  faith  and  friendship,  growing  with  your  age, 
Speak  through  your  eyes  and  all  his  love  engage; 
If  by  that  master's  wish  your  life  you  rule  — 
If  this  be  folly,  Rufus,  you  're  a  fool. 

Old  dog,  content  you;  Rufus,  have  no  fear; 
While  life  is  yours  and  mine  your  place  is  here. 
And  when  the  day  shall  come,  as  come  it  must, 
When  Rufus  goes  to  mingle  with  the  dust 
(If  Fate  ordains  that  you  shall  pass  before 
To  the  abhorred  and  sunless  Stygian  shore), 
I  think  old  Charon,  punting  through  the  dark, 
Will  hear  a  sudden  friendly  little  bark; 
And  on  the  shore  he  '11  mark  without  a  frown 
A  flap-eared  doggie,  bandy-legged  and  brown. 
He  '11  take  you  in :  since  watermen  are  kind, 
He  'd  scorn  to  leave  my  little  dog  behind. 
He  '11  ask  no  obol,  but  install  you  there 
On  Styx's  further  bank  without  a  fare. 
There  shall  you  sniff  his  cargoes  as  they  come, 
And  droop  your  head,  and  turn,  and  still  be  dumb  — 
Till  one  fine  day,  half  joyful,  half  in  fear, 
You  run  and  prick  a  recognising  ear, 
And  last,  oh,  rapture !  leaping  to  his  hand, 
Salute  your  master  as  he  steps  to  land. 

R.  C.  Lehmann 

THE  BLOODHOUND 

Come,  Herod,  my  hound,  from  the  stranger's  floor ! 
Old  friend,  —  we  must  wander  this  world  once 

more!        ^ 

For  no  one  now  liveth  to  welcome  us  back: 
So,  come !  let  us  speed  on  our  fated  track. 


66  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

What    matter    the    region,  —  what    matter    the 

weather, 

So  you  and  I  travel,  till  death,  together? 
And  in  death?  —  why,  e'en  there  I  may  still  be 

found 
By  the  side  of  my  beautiful  black  bloodhound. 

We've  traversed  the  desert,  we've  traversed  the 

sea, 

And  we  've  trod  on  the  heights  where  the  eagles  be ; 
Seen  Tartar,  and  Arab,  and  swart  Hindoo; 
(How  thou  pulledst  down  the  deer  in  those  skies  of 

blue!) 

No  joy  did  divide  us;  no  peril  could  part 
The  man  from  his  friend  of  the  noble  heart; 
Aye,  his  friend:  for  where,  where  shall  there  ever  be 

found 
A  friend  like  his  resolute,  fond  bloodhound? 

What,  Herod,  old  hound!  dost  remember  the  day 

When  I  routed  the  wolves,  like  a  stag  at  bay? 

When  downward  they  galloped  to  where  we  stood, 

Whilst  I  staggered  with  fear  in  the  dark  pine  wood? 

Dost  remember  their  howlings?  their  horrible 
speed? 

God,  God,  how  I  prayed  for  a  friend  in  need ! 

And  —  he  came !  Ah,  't  was  then,  my  dear  Herod, 
I  found 

That  the  best  of  all  friends  was  my  bold  blood- 
hound. 

Men  tell  us,  dear  friend,  that  the  noble  hound 
Must  forever  be  lost  in  the  worthless  ground: 


TO  TIM  — AN  IRISH  TERRIER          67 

Yet  "Courage  »  — "  Fidelity  "  —  "  Love  "  (they  say) 
Bear  man,  as  on  wings,  to  his  skies  away. 
Well,  Herod,  go  tell  them  whatever  may  be 
I  '11  hope  I  may  ever  be  found  by  thee. 
If  in  sleep,  —  in  sleep ;  if  in  skies  around, 
Mayst  thou  follow  e'en  thither,  my  dear  blood- 
hound ! 

Bryan  Waller  Procter 
(Barry  Cornwall) 


TO  TIM  —  AN  IRISH  TERRIER 

0  jewel  of  my  heart,  I  sing  your  praise, 
Though  you  who  are,  alas !  of  middle  age 
Have  never  been  to  school,  and  cannot  read 

The  weary  printed  page. 

1  sing  your  eyes,  two  pools  in  shadowed  streams, 
Where  your  soul  shines  in  depths  of  sunny  brown, 
Alertly  raised  to  read  my  every  mood 

Or  thoughtfully  cast  down. 

I  sing  the  little  nose,  so  glossy  wet, 
The  well-trained  sentry  to  your  eager  mind, 
So  swift  to  catch  the  delicate,  glad  scent 
Of  rabbits  on  the  wind. 

Ah,  fair  to  me  your  wheaten-coloured  coat, 
And  fair  the  darker  velvet  of  your  ear, 
Ragged  and  scarred  with  old  hostilities 
That  never  taught  you  fear. 

But  O !  your  heart,  where  my  unworthiness 
Is  made  perfection  by  love's  alchemy; 


68  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

How  often  does  your  doghood's  faith  cry  shame 
To  my  inconstancy. 

At  last  I  know  the  hunter  Death  will  come 
And  whistle  low  the  call  you  must  obey. 
So  you  will  leave  me,  comrade  of  my  heart, 
To  take  a  lonely  way. 

Some  tell  me,  Tim,  we  shall  not  meet  again, 
But  for  their  loveless  logic  need  we  care?  — 
If  I  should  win  to  Heav'n's  gate  I  know 
You  will  be  waiting  there. 

Winifred  M.  Letts 

HIS  CODE  OF  HONOR 

His  scanty  raiment  stained  and  rent, 
His  courage  and  his  strength  forespent, 
He  knocks  at  his  familiar  door, 
Fast-shut,  as  ne'er  it  was  before. 
He  hears  no  noise  of  hurrying  feet, 
No  friendly  hands  reach  forth  to  greet 
The  wanderer,  whom  none  may  know,  — 
Mayhap  a  crafty,  cruel  foe. 
In  distant  islands  he  had  roved, 
And  now  unto  the  home  he  loved, 
He  comes  a  stranger  to  his  own, 
Unwelcomed,  aye,  because  unknown. 

Now  nearer  to  his  door  he  stands, 
And  patient  waits  with  folded  hands, 
When  hark!  a  deep-mouthed  welcome  sounds, 
And  lo!  with  joyous  cries  and  bounds 


HIS  CODE  OF  HONOR  69 

A  friend  folds  him  in  close  embrace, 

And  wistfully  looks  in  his  face :  — 

Wise  Argus  who  afar  descries 

His  master,  and  exultant  flies 

To  meet  him,  while  wide  fling  the  doors 

Through  which  the  eager  household  pours  — 

Too  dull  to  guess  that  Argus  sees 

In  this  poor  wanderer  Ulysses. 

Tell  us,  O  sage  philosopher, 

What  is  this  lofty  character? 

This  thought  and  memory  none  dispute 

In  creature  we  declare  a  brute; 

The  loyalty,  sincere  and  sure, 

The  love  that  all  things  doth  endure, 

This  subtle  sense,  that  wondrous  thing 

So  near  akin  to  reasoning  — 

Too  high,  too  deep,  too  broad  for  name 

Of  Instinct  which  it  puts  to  shame? 

Once  win  a  dog's  love,  his  life  long 

He  is  your  friend,  a  hero  strong, 

Which  sacrifice  and  valiant  deed 

Shall  prove  in  many  a  time  of  need. 

Not  years  of  absence,  chance,  and  change, 

The  heart  of  Argus  could  estrange ; 

His  was  the  code  of  honor  held 

By  hero  dogs  in  days  of  eld, 

And  Rab  and  Rover  in  this  day, 

The  same  code  loyally  obey. 

Zitella  Cocke 


70  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

THE  POWER  OF  THE  DOG 

There  is  sorrow  enough  in  the  natural  way 
From  men  and  women  to  fill  our  day; 
And  when  we  are  certain  of  sorrow  in  store, 
Why  do  we  always  arrange  for  more? 
Brothers  and  Sisters,  I  bid  you  beware 
Of  giving  your  heart  to  a  dog  to  tear. 

Buy  a  pup  and  your  money  will  buy 

Love  unflinching  that  cannot  lie  — 

Perfect  passion  and  worship  fed 

By  a  kick  in  the  ribs  or  a  pat  on  the  head. 

Nevertheless  it  is  hardly  fair 

To  risk  your  heart  for  a  dog  to  tear. 

When  the  fourteen  years  which  Nature  permits 

Are  closing  in  asthma,  or  tumour,  or  fits, 

And  the  vet's  unspoken  prescription  runs 

To  lethal  chambers  or  loaded  guns, 

Then  you  will  find  —  it  ys  your  own  affair  — 

But .  .  .  youjve  given  your  heart  to  a  dog  to  tear. 

When  the  body  that  lived  at  your  single  will, 
With  its  whimper  of  welcome,  is  stilled  (how  still !) ; 
When  the  spirit  that  answered  your  every  mood 
Is  gone  —  wherever  it  goes  —  for  good, 
You  will  discover  how  much  you  care, 
And  will  give  your  heart  to  a  dog  to  tear. 

We  *ve  sorrow  enough  in  the  natural  way, 
When  it  comes  to  burying  Christian  clay. 
Our  loves  are  not  given,  but  only  lent, 
At  compound  interest  of  cent  per  cent. 


VIGI  71 

Though  it  is  not  always  the  case,  I  believe, 

That  the  longer  we've  kept  'em,  the  more  do  we 

grieve: 

For,  when  debts  are  payable,  right  or  wrong, 
A  short-time  loan  is  as  bad  as  a  long  — 
So  why  in  —  Heaven  (before  we  are  there) 
Should  we  give  our  hearts  to  a  dog  to  tear? 

Rudyard  Kipling 


VIGI 

Wisest  of  dogs  was  Vigi,  a  tawny-coated  hound 
That  King  Olaf ,  warring  over  green  hills  of  Ireland, 

found ; 
His  merry  Norse  were  driving  away  a  mighty 

herd 
For  feasts  upon  the  dragon-ships,  when  an  isleman 

dared  a  word : 

"  From  all  those  stolen  hundreds,  well  might  ye 

spare  my  score." 
"Aye,  take  them,"  quoth  the  gamesome  king, 

"  but  not  a  heifer  more. 
Choose  out  thine  own,  nor  hinder  us;  yet  choose 

without  a  slip." 
The  isleman  laughed  and  whistled,  his  finger  at 

his  lip. 

Oh,  swift  the  bright-eyed  Vigi  went  darting  through 

the  herd 
And  singled  out  his  master's  neat  with  a  nose  that 

never  erred, 


72  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

And  drave  the  star-marked  twenty  forth,  to  the 

wonder  of  the  king, 
Who  bought  the  hound  right  honestly,  at  the  price 

of  a  broad  gold  ring. 

If  the  herd-dog  dreamed  of  an  Irish  voice  and  of 

cattle  on  the  hill, 
He  told  it  not  to  Olaf  the  King,  whose  will  was 

Vigi's  will, 
But  followed  him  far  in  faithful  love  and  bravely 

helped  him  win 
His  famous  fight  with  Thorir  Hart  and  Raud,  the 

wizard  Finn. 

Above  the  clamor  and  the  clang  shrill  sounded 

Vigi's  bark 
And  when  the  groaning  ship  of  Raud  drew  seaward 

to  the  dark, 
And  Thorir  Hart  leapt  to  the  land,  bidding  his 

rowers  live 
Who  could,  Olaf  and  Vigi  strained  hard  on  the 

fugitive. 

'T  was  Vigi  caught  the  runner's  heel  and  stayed  the 

wind-swift  flight 
Till  Olaf's  well-hurled  spear  had  changed  the  day 

to  endless  night 
For  Thorir  Hart,  but  not  before  his  sword  had  stung 

the  hound, 
Whom  the  heroes  bore  on  shield  to  ship,  all  grieving 

for  his  wound. 


FRENCHIE  73 


Now  proud  of  heart  was  Vigi  to  be  borne  to  ship 

on  shield, 
And  many  a  day  thereafter,  when  the  bitter  thrust 

was  healed, 
Would  the  dog  leap  up  on  the  Vikings  and  coax  with 

his  Irish  wit 
Till  'mid  laughter  a  shield  was  leveled,  and  Vigi 

rode  on  it. 

Katharine  Lee  Bates 


"FRENCHIE" 

I  found  him  in  a  shell-hole, 
With  a  gash  across  his  head, 

Standing  guard  beside  his  master, 
Though  he  knew  the  boy  was  dead. 

Hell  was  raining  all  around  us, 
We  could  only  lie  there  tight, 

Got  to  sort  o'  like  each  other 
Through  the  misery  of  that  night. 

When  I  crawled  back  to  the  trenches, 

—  And  I  took  his  master,  too,  — 
Frenchie  followed.  Guess  he  figured, 
Just  because  of  that,  I  Jd  do. 

You  would  n't  say  he's  handsome, 
He 's  been  hit  a  dozen  times  — 

But  when  we  boys  "  go  over," 
Over  with  us  Frenchie  climbs. 

He  has  fleas,  and  I  have  "  cooties." 
He  speaks  French;  I  "  no  compree." 


74  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

So  the  rule  of  fifty-fifty 

Goes  between  my  dog  and  me. 

And  when  for  home  I  'm  starting, 
If  I  live  to  see  this  through, 

Just  one  thing  is  sure  as  shooting; 
That  my  dog  is  going,  too. 

Sgt.  Frank  C.  McCarthy,  A.E..F. 

THE  WAR  DOG 

He  was  only  a  dog,  but  he  went  to  war 

On  the  shell-ploughed  fields  of  France, 
And  loyally  labored  with  tooth  and  paw 
To  baffle  the  clutch  of  an  iron  claw, 
In  the  swoop  of  the  Hun's  advance. 

Without  an  equipment  he  joined  our  fight; 

Without  a  commission  or  rank, 
For  a  cur  he  was,  with  a  social  blight, 
Yet  we  gave  him  a  uniform  of  white, 

With  a  crimson  cross  on  his  flank. 

And  he  wore  his  cross  with  a  lordly  pride, 

As  he  raced  through  a  sea  of  mud, 
Till  the  white  of  his  uniform  was  dyed 
With  the  trickling  ooze  of  a  crimson  tide, 
And  his  cross  was  a  smear  of  blood. 

His  post  was  a  line  where  the  wounded  piled 

And  his  chief  was  a  surgeon's  son, 
A  man  among  men,  with  the  heart  of  a  child, 
A  Master  of  mercy  who  worked  and  smiled 
And  who  smiled  when  his  work  was  done. 


THE  WAR  DOG  75 

And  so  they  toiled  for  their  country's  weal, 

Unhonored,  unarmed,  unsung! 
A  bandage,  a  sponge,  and  a  spot  to  kneel, 
In  a  torturing  tempest  of  splintered  steel, 

On  a  short  hour's  sleep  —  and  a  bone. 

Where  the  man  had  a  mission  to  ease  the  pain 

Of  his  brothers  who  fell  and  bled, 
There  a  dog  went  out  on  a  gas-soaked  plain, 
To  snuffle  and  sniff  through  the  mounds  of  slain 

For  the  living  among  the  dead; 

And  many  a  mother,  who  knelt  and  prayed 

At  the  Cross  for  her  battling  son, 
May  ever  thank  God  that  his  death  was  stayed 
By  the  grit  of  a  dog  that  was  unafraid, 

In  the  cause  of  a  cross  that  won. 

It  won  through  the  rush  of  a  trampling  host, 

Over  shattered  and  heaving  ground, 
Where  a  dust  cloud  hung  like  a  devil's  ghost, 
And  the  black  guns  thundered  from  coast  to  coast 
Till  the  whole  world  shook  with  the  sound; 

Where  the  hot  shells  screamed  and  the  shrapnel 
sang 

To  the  basso  boom  of  the  guns, 
Where  the  bayonets  clashed,  and  the  rifles  rang 
With  a  resonant,  roaring,  crashing  clang, 

In  the  path  of  the  blood-mad  Huns. 

Their  whistles  shrilled,  and  the  gray  hordes  burst 
Through  a  sulphurous  pall  of  smoke, 


76  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

To  falter  and  reel,  like  a  man  athirst, 
Yet  onward  in  waves  of  a  sea  accursed, 
And  our  thin  lines  wavered  and  broke. 

Back,  back  we  were  bent,  till  a  counter-blow 

Was  launched  in  a  turbulent  tide, 
And  khaki  columns  were  locked  with  the  foe, 
In  a  dizzily-tumbling  whirlpool  flow, 

Where  the  billows  of  fury  ride. 

Where  the  Eagle  clawed  at  a  Vulture's  crest 

And  tore  with  his  beak  at  a  crown, 
There  a  surgeon  lay,  with  a  white  hand  prest 
To  a  wound  in  his  undef ended  breast, 

Where  a  Prussian  had  struck  him  down. 

Yet  the  war  dog  stood  by  his  fallen  mate, 

Then  straight  for  a  throat  he  leaped, 
And  another  note  in  the  hymn  of  hate 
Was  ripped  from  its  scroll  by  the  fangs  of  Fate, 
In  a  harvest  of  horror  reaped. 

And  a  dog  had  reaped,  in  the  princely  pride 
Of  a  trust  that  should  live  unmarred, 

Though  the  bullets  scorched  through  his  quivering 
hide, 

Till  he  sank  to  earth  at  his  master's  side, 
Unconquered  —  and  still  on  guard ! 

He  crouched  by  his  own  like  a  brother's  twin, 

And  with  blood  on  his  bristling  fur, 
"  By  God ! "  screamed  a  boy,  in  the  battle's  din, 
"  I  'm  going  out  yonder  and  bring  him  in ! " 

And  he  went  through  hell  —  for  a  cur. 


THE  WAR  DOG  77 

But  the  cur  recoiled  from  the  pitying  hand 

That  was  stretched  for  his  own  relief, 
And  snarled  at  the  boy,  in  a  hoarse  command 
That  even  a  human  could  understand, 
So  he  stooped  for  the  helpless  chief. 

He  lifted  him  up  on  his  strong  young  back, 

And  the  dog  saluted  in  joy, 
With  a  bark  as  clear  as  a  rifle's  crack, 
Then  he  dragged  himself  on  the  shot-swept  track 

Of  the  staggering,  reeling  boy. 

And  our  line  went  mad,  to  its  roaring  rear, 

In  the  homage  of  souls  astir, 
For  those  who  had  laughed  in  the  face  of  fear,  — 
While  the  trenches  rocked  with  a  triple  cheer 

For  a  man !  For  a  boy !  And  a  cur! 


Did  the  chief  pass  out?  Did  the  war  dog  die, 

And  his  mission  of  mercy  fail? 
He  answered  himself  and  gave  us  the  lie, 
With  a  gleam  in  one  swollen,  blood-shot  eye 

And  a  wag  of  his  bleeding  tail. 

Through  battered  Belgium  and  shell-riven  France, 

Where  the  banners  of  Britain  wave, 
He  lolled  in  a  nebulous  morphia  trance, 
As  he  rode  in  a  Red  Cross  ambulance, 
And  cheated  a  warrior's  grave. 

At  the  hospital  base  his  cheating  was  worse, 
If  the  theft  of  our  hearts  be  sin, 


78  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

For  he  sponged  on  a  Major-General's  purse, 
And  licked  the  tears  from  the  cheek  of  his  nurse, 
As  she  tenderly  tucked  him  in. 

So  they  gave  him  another  cross  to  wear, 
Though  they  wanted  to  give  him  ten; 
But  he  kept  just  two  —  which  was  just  and  fair  — 
The  cross  on  his  flank,  and  a  Croix  de  Guerre, 
r    For  the  envy  of  lesser  men. 

Yet,  he  only  asks,  with  a  pleading  paw, 

When  this  madness  of  Might  shall  cease, 
To  hold  in  your  bosoms  one  human  law  — 
Remember  our  dogs  in  the  days  of  War, 
And  our  dogs  in  the  days  of  Peace. 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


GOOD  DOGS 

Away  with  the  academic  muse!  I  have  no  business  with 
that  old  prude.  I  invoke  the  familiar  muse,  the  citizen, 
the  boon  companion,  to  aid  me  to  sing  the  good  dog,  the 
poor  dog,  the  dirty  dog,  those  whom  every  one  drives  awayf 
pestiferous  and  lousy,  except  the  poor  whose  associates 
they  are,  and  the  poet,  who  sees  them  with  fraternal  eye. 

Fie  upon  the  foppish  dog,  upon  the  coxcomb  quadruped, 
Dane,  King  Charles,  pug  dog  or  lap  dog,  so  enamoured  of 
himself  that  he  darts  inconsiderately  between  the  legs  or 
on  the  knees  of  a  visitor  as  if  he  were  certain  of  pleasing, 
wild  as  a  youngster,  foolish  as  a  flirt,  often  surly  and  zn- 
solent  as  a  servant!  Fie  especially  upon  those  four-pawed 
serpents,  idle  and  shivering,  that  are  called  greyhounds 
and  that  do  not  harbor  in  their  pointed  muzzle  enough 
scent  to  follow  the  track  of  a  friend,  nor  in  their  flattened 
head  enough  intelligence  to  play  at  dominoes! 

To  the  kennel  with  all  these  plaguey  parasites! 

Let  them  slink  to  the  kennel  stuffed  and  sulky!  I  sing 
the  dirty  dog,  the  poor  dog,  the  homeless  dog,  the  stroller 
dog,  the  dog  buffoon,  the  dog  whose  instinct,  like  that  of 
the  poor,  the  gypsy  and  the  mountebank  is  marvellously 
sharpened  by  necessity,  that  excellent  mother,  that  true 
patron  of  intelligence! 

BAUDELAIRE 


THE  DOG-STAR  PUP 

On  the  silver  edge  of  a  vacant  star  near  the  trem- 
bling Pleiades, 
A  Hobo,  lately  arrived  from  earth  sat  rubbing  his 

rusty  chin, 
All  unaware  as  he  waited  there  with  his  elbows  on 

his  knees, 

That  an  angel  stood  at  the  Golden  Gate  im- 
patient to  let  him  in. 

The  Hobo,  peering  across  the  space  on  a  million 

worlds  below, 
Started  up  as  he  heard  a  voice:  "  Mortal,  why 

wait  ye  there?  " 
He  scratched  his  head  as  he  turned  and  said,  "  I 

reckon  I  got  to  go  — 

And  mebby  the  goin'  is  just  as  good  in  Heaven, 
as  anywhere." 

A  little  while  and  the  Hobo  stood  at  the  thrice- 
barred  Golden  Gate: 
"Enter!"  the  stately  angel  cried.  "You  came 

to  a  worthy  end, 
Though  the  sad  arrears  of  your  wasted  years  have 

occasioned  a  brisk  debate, 
You  gave  your  life  in  a  noble  cause  —  you  per- 
ished to  save  a  friend." 

"  Only  me  dog,"  and  the  Hobo  smiled,  but  the 

startled  angel  frowned 

At  that  rack  of  rags  that  was  standing  there 
adorning  the  right-of-way: 


82  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

"  Him  and  me,  we  was  pardners,  see!  down  there 

where  the  world  goes  round, 
And  I  was  waitin'  for  him  to  come  —  but  mebby 
he  stopped  to  play." 

"  You  are  late,"  said  the  angel,  "  one  year  late ! " 

The  Hobo  turned  his  head, 
"  Then  who  was  hoi  din*  the  watch  on  me  when  I 

saved  me  pal,  was  you? 
Just  figure  it  out  —  if  me  dog  cashed  in  a-savin' 

me  life,  instead, 

Now  would  n't  he  wait  for  his  missin'  mate  till 
he  seen  I  was  comin'  too?  " 

Sadly  the  angel  shook  his  head  and  lifted  the  portal 

bar: 
"  One  minute  more  and  the  Scribe  will  strike 

your  name  from  the  Roll  Sublime." 
When  up  from  below  came  a  yellow  dog  a-hopping 

from  star  to  star, 

And  wagging  his  tail  as  he  sniffed  the  trail  that 
his  master  had  had  to  climb. 

Then  something  slipped  in  the  scheme  of  things :  a 

comet  came  frisking  by, 
A  kind  of  a  loco  Dog-Star  pup  just  out  for  a  little 

chase; 
The  yellow  pup  got  his  dander  up  and  started  across 

the  sky, 

As  the  flickering  comet  tucked  its  tail  —  and 
never  was  such  a  race ! 


THE  DOG-STAR  PUP  83 

Round  the  heavens  and  back  again  flew  comet  and 

dog  unchecked : 
The   Great  Bear  growled   and  the   Sun   Dogs 

barked;  astronomers  had  begun 
To  rub  their  eyes  in  a  wild  surmise  that  their  records 

were  incorrect, 

When  the  puppy,  crossing  his  master's  track, 
stopped  short  —  and  the  race  was  done. 

Singed  and  sorry  and  out  of  breath  he  mounted  the 

starry  trail, 
And  trotted  to  where  his  master  stood  by  the 

gate  to  the  Promised  Land: 
"  'T  was  a  flamin*  run  that  you  gave  him,  son,  and 

you  made  him  tuck  his  tail," 
And  the  Hobo  patted  the  puppy's  head  with  a 
soiled  but  forgiving  hand. 

When,  slowly  the  Gates  dissolved  in  air  and  the 

twain  were  left  alone, 
On  a  road  that  wound  through  fields  and  flowers 

past  many  a  shady  tree; 
"  Now  this  is  like  we  'd  a-made  it,  tyke,  an'  I  reckon 

it 's  all  our  own, 

And  nothin'  to  do  but  go,"  he  said,  "  which  is 
Heaven  for  you  and  me." 

Heaven  —  save  that  the  Hobo  felt  a  kind  of  uneasy 

pride 

As  he  pushed  his  halo  a  bit  aslant  and  gazed  at 
his  garments  strange, 


84  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

But  the  pup  knew  naught  of  these  changes  wrought 

since  crossing  the  Great  Divide,      », 
For  the  heart  of  a  dog  —  and  he  love  a  man  — 
may  never  forget  or  change. 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 


MY  BULL  TERRIER 

Bull  Terrier?  Sure  she 's  a  white  'un  — there  ain't 
no  other  breed. 

Frolic  'round  you  in  the  sunshine,  murder  in  time 
o'  need. 

Soul?  O'  course,  she  ain't  got  none.  A  dog  with  a 
soul,  gee  whiz ! 

We  folks,  so  the  preachers  tell  us,  has  all  the  souls 
that  there  is. 

The  thief  has  a  soul,  and  the  pander;  the  wife- 
beater,  he  has  a  soul; 

But  Frost !  O'  course  not,  she  ain't  on  the  lordly 
roll. 

A  dog  when  it  dies,  so  they  tell  us,  well  —  that  dog 
is  just  plain  dead, 

But  we  lofty  human  beings  have  eternity  ahead. 

And  this  Frost  she  ain't  fit,  like  us  folks,  for  to  en- 
ter into  that  same, 

For  she  only  minds  her  own  business  and  raises  her 
pups  to  be  game. 

The  world  has  millions  o'  humans  a-whinin'  to 

thousands  o'  gods, 
While  this  Frost  asks  nothin'  from  no  one,  whatever 

the  bloomin'  odds. 


MY  BULL  TERRIER  85 

She  never  goes  back  on  a  pal,  and  there 's  nothin' 

can  make  her  quit, 
Not  if  you  chopped  her  to  pieces  and  burned  her 

bit  by  bit. 
But,  o'  course,  when  she  dies  she 's  a  dead  one,  I 

have  to  go  it  alone, 
And  I  ain't  so  keen  on  facin'  the  shadowy  trail  on 

my  own. 
Still,  if  ever  I  fluke  into  heaven,  I  '11  bet  I  hain't  long 

to  wait 
Till  that  blame  little  Frost  comes  smashing  right 

through  the  pearly  gate. 
St.  Peter  could  never  stop  her,  not  if  she  gets  a 

start, 
And  if  ever  he  looks  in  them  eyes,  I  doubt  if  he  'd 

have  the  heart. 

This  Frost,  the  preachers  tell  us,  has  no  soul,  and 

maybe  it's  true, 
Though  I  knows  the  white  on  her  jacket  runs  plumb 

clear  all  the  way  through  — 
Which  is  more  'n  I  'd  say  of  some  humans  possessed 

of  immortal  souls; 
Well,  loyalty  maybe  is  foolish :  it  surely  don't  fatten 

no  rolls. 
Frost,  I  guess,  is  a  fool,  and  don't  know  her  way 

about, 
For  she'll  stick,  while  your  friends  forget  you  as 

soon  as  you're  down  and  out. 
So,  according  to  what  they  tell  us,  I'll  have  to  say 

good-bye 

To  the  game  little  pal  of  a  white  'un 
When  it  comes  my  time  to  die. 


86  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

That 's  right,  I  suppose,  but  if  ever  she  thinks  that 

I  need  her,  —  well, 
That  Frost '11  knock  down  the  devil  and  swim 

through  the  flames  of  hell. 

Wex  Jones 

RHAPSODY  ON  A  DOG'S  INTELLIGENCE 

Dear  dog  that  seems  to  stand  and  gravely  brood 
Upon  the  broad  veranda  of  our  home, 
With  soulful  eyes  that  gaze  into  the  gloam,  — 

With  speaking  tail  that  registers  thy  mood,  — 
Men  say  thou  hast  no  ratiocination  — 
Methinks  there  is  a  clever  imitation. 

Men  say  again  thy  kindred  have  no  souls, 

And  sin  is  but  an  attribute  of  men; 

Say,  is  it  chance  alone  that  bids  thee,  then, 
Choose  only  garden  spots  for  digging  holes? 

Why  dost  thou  filch  some  fragment  of  the  cooking 

At  times  when  no  one  seemeth  to  be  looking? 

Was  there  an  elder  Adam  of  thy  race, 
And  brindled  Eve,  the  mother  of  thy  house, 
Who  shared  some  purloined  chicken  with  her 
spouse, 

Thus  causing  all  thy  tribe  to  fall  from  grace? 
If  fleas  dwelt  in  the  garden  of  that  Adam, 
Perhaps  thy  sinless  parents  never  had  'em. 

This  morn  thou  cam'st  a-slinking  through  the  door, 
Avoiding  eyes,  and  some  dark  corner  sought, 
And  though  no  accusation  filled  our  thought, 

Thy  tail,  apologetic,  thumped  the  floor. 


THE  BATH  87 


Who  claims   thou   hast  no  conscience,  argues 

vainly, 
For  I  have  seen  its  symptoms  very  plainly. 

What  leads  thee  to  forsake  thy  board  and  bed 
On  days  that  are  devoted  to  thy  bath? 
For  if  it  is  not  reason,  yet  it  hath 

Appearance  of  desire  to  plan  ahead ! 
The  sage  who  claims  thy  brain  and  soul  be  wizen 
Would  do  quite  well  to  swap  thy  head  for  his  'n. 

Burges  Johnson 

THE  BATH 

Hang  garlands  on  the  bathroom  door; 

Let  all  the  passages  be  spruce; 
For,  lo,  the  victim  comes  once  more, 

And,  ah,  he  struggles  like  the  deuce ! 

Bring  soaps  of  many  scented  sorts; 

Let  girls  in  pinafores  attend, 
With  John,  their  brother,  in  his  shorts, 

To  wash  their  dusky  little  friend  — 

Their  little  friend,  the  dusky  dog, 
Short-legged  and  very  obstinate, 

Faced  like  a  much-offended  frog, 
And  fighting  hard  against  his  fate. 

No  Briton  he !  From  palace-born 
Chinese  patricians  he  descends; 

He  keeps  their  high  ancestral  scorn ; 
His  spirit  breaks,  but  never  bends. 

Our  water-ways  he  fain  would  'scape; 
He  hates  the  customary  bath 


88  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

That  thins  his  tail  and  spoils  his  shape, 
And  turns  him  to  a  fur-clad  lath; 

And,  seeing  that  the  Pekinese 

Have  lustrous  eyes  that  bulge  like  buds, 
He  fain  would  save  such  eyes  as  these, 

Their  owner's  pride,  from  British  suds. 

Vain  are  his  protests  —  in  he  goes. 

His  young  barbarians  crowd  around; 
They  soap  his  paws,  they  soap  his  nose; 

They  soap  wherever  fur  is  found. 

And  soon,  still  laughing,  they  extract 
His  limpness  from  the  darkling  tide; 

They  make  the  towel's  roughness  act 
On  back  and  head  and  dripping  side. 

They  shout  and  rub  and  rub  and  shout  — 
He  deprecates  their  odious  glee  — 

Until  at  last  they  turn  him  out, 
A  damp,  gigantic  bumble-bee. 

Released,  he  barks  and  rolls,  and  speeds 
From  lawn  to  lawn,  from  path  to  path, 

And  in  one  glorious  minute  needs 
More  soapsuds  and  another  bath. 

R.  C.  Lehmann 


A  LAUGH  IN  CHURCH 

She  sat  on  the  sliding  cushion, 
The  dear,  wee  woman  of  four; 
Her  feet,  in  their  shiny  slippers, 
Hung  dangling  over  the  floor. 


A  LAUGH  IN  CHURCH  89 

She  meant  to  be  good;  she  had  promised, 
And  so  with  her  big,  brown  eyes, 
She  stared  at  the  meeting  house  windows 
And  counted  the  crawling  flies. 

She  looked  far  up  at  the  preacher, 

But  she  thought  of  the  honeybees 

Droning  away  at  the  blossoms 

That  whitened  the  cherry  trees. 

She  thought  of  a  broken  basket, 

Where  curled  in  a  dusky  heap, 

Four  sleek,  round  puppies,  with  fringy  ears, 

Lay  snuggled  and  fast  asleep. 

Such  soft,  warm  bodies  to  cuddle, 
Such  queer  little  hearts  to  beat, 
Such  swift  round  tongues  to  kiss, 
Such  sprawling,  cushiony  feet; 
She  could  feel  in  her  clasping  fingers 
The  touch  of  the  satiny  skin, 
And  a  cold,  wet  nose  exploring 
The  dimples  under  her  chin. 

Then  a  sudden  ripple  of  laughter 

Ran  over  the  parted  lips 

So  quick  that  she  could  not  catch  it 

With  her  rosy  finger-tips. 

The  people  whispered  "  Bless  the  child," 

As  each  one  waked  from  a  nap. 

But  the  dear,  wee  woman  hid  her  face 

For  shame  in  her  mother's  lap. 

Anonymous 


go  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

WHY  THE  DOG'S  NOSE  IS  COLD 

"  What  makes  the  dog's  nose  always  cold?  " 
I  '11  try  to  tell  you,  Curls-of-gold, 
If  you  will  sit  upon  my  knee 
And  very  good  and  quiet  be. 

Well,  years  and  years  and  years  ago  — 
How  many  I  don't  really  know  — 
There  came  a  rain  on  sea  and  shore; 
Its  like  was  never  seen  before 
Or  since.  It  fell  unceasing  down 
Till  all  the  world  began  to  drown. 

But  just  before  it  down  did  pour, 

An  old,  old  man  — •  his  name  was  Noah  — 

Built  him  an  ark,  that  he  might  save 

His  family  from  a  watery  grave; 

And  in  it  also  he  designed 

To  shelter  two  of  every  kind 

Of  beast.  Well,  dear,  when  it  was  done, 

And  heavy  clouds  obscured  the  sun, 

The  Noah  folks  to  it  quickly  ran, 

And  then  the  animals  began 

To  gravely  march  along  in  pairs. 

The  leopards,  tigers,  wolves  and  bears, 

The  deer,  the  hippopotamuses, 

The  rabbits,  squirrels,  elks,  walruses, 

The  camels,  goats,  and  cats,  and  donkeys, 

The  tall  giraffes,  the  beavers,  monkeys, 

The  rats,  the  big  rhinoceroses, 

The  dromedaries  and  the  horses, 


I  'VE  GOT  A  DOG  gi 

The  sheep,  the  mice,  the  kangaroos, 

Hyenas,  elephants,  koodoos, 

And  many  more  — •  't  would  take  all  day, 

My  dear,  the  very  names  to  say  — 

And  at  the  very,  very  end 

Of  the  procession,  by  his  friend 

And  master,  faithful  dog  was  seen. 

The  lifelong  time  he  'd  helping  been 
To  drive  the  crowd  of  creatures  in; 
And  now,  with  loud,  exultant  bark, 
He  gayly  sprang  aboard  the  ark. 

Alas !  So  crowded  was  the  space 
He  could  not  in  it  find  a  place; 
So,  patiently,  he  turned  about,  — 
Stood  half-way  in,  and  half-way  out, 
And  those  extremely  heavy  showers 
Descended  through  nine  hundred  hours 
And  more;  and,  darling,  at  their  close 
Most  frozen  was  hi£  honest  nose; 
And  never  could  it  lose  again 
The  dampness  of  that  dreadful  rain. 

And  that  is  what,  my  Curls-of-gold, 
Made  all  the  doggies'  noses  cold. 

Margaret  Ey tinge 

I'VE  GOT  A  DOG 

I've  got  a  dog.  The  other  boys 
Have  quantities  of  tools  and  toys, 
And  heaps  of  things  that  I  ain't  seen 
(Ain't  saw,  I  mean). 


92  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

They've  oars  and  clubs  and  golfin'  sticks,  — 
I  know  a  feller  that  has  six, 

And  gee !  you  ought  to  see  him  drive ! 

But  I  've 

Got  a  dog ! 

I  Ve  got  a  dog.  His  name  is  Pete. 
The  other  children  on  our  street 
Have  lots  of  things  that  I  ain't  got 

(I  mean,  have  not). 
I  know  a  boy  that 's  got  a  gun. 
I  don't  see  why  they  have  such  fun 

Playing  with  things  that  ain't  alive; 

But  I've 

Got  a  dog ! 

I  've  got  a  dog,  and  so,  you  see, 
The  boys  all  want  to  play  with  me; 
They  think  he's  such  a  cunnin'  brute 

(I  mean,  so  cute). 

That 's  why  they  leave  their  toys  and  games, 
And  run  to  us,  and  shout  our  names, 

Whenever  me  and  Pete  arrive; 

For  I've 

Got  a  dog ! 

Ethel  M.  Kelley 


JUST  OUR  DOG 

He  was  just  a  dog,  mister  —  that's  all; 
And  all  of  us  boys  called  him  Bub ; 
He  was  curly  and  not  very  tall 
And  he  had  n't  a  tail  —  just  a  stub. 


JUST  OUR  DOG  '93 

His  tail  froze  one  cold  night,  you  see; 
We  just  pulled  the  rest  of  him  through. 
No  —  he  did  n't  have  much  pedigree  — 
Perhaps  that  was  frozen  off,  too. 

He  always  seemed  quite  well  behaved, 

And  he  never  had  many  bad  fights; 

In  summer  he  used  to  be  shaved 

And  he  slept  in  the  woodshed  o'  nights. 

Sometimes  he  would  wake  up  too  soon 

And  cry,  if  his  tail  got  a  chill; 

Some  nights  he  would  bark  at  the  moon, 

But  some  nights  he  would  sleep  very  still. 

He  knew  how  to  play  hide-and-seek, 
And  he  always  would  come  when  you'd  call; 
He  would  play  dead,  roll  over  and  speak, 
And  learned  it  in  no  time  at  all. 
Sometimes  he  would  growl,  just  in  play, 
But  he  never  would  bite,  and  his  worst 
Was  to  bark  at  the  postman  one  day, 
But  the  postman,  he  barked  at  him  first. 

He  used  to  chase  cats  up  a  tree, 
But  that  was  just  only  in  fun; 
And  a  cat  was  as  safe  as  could  be  — 
Unless  it  should  start  out  to  run; 
Sometimes  he  'd  chase  children  and  throw 
Them  down,  just  while  running  along, 
And  then  lick  their  faces  to  show 
He  did  n't  mean  anything  wrong. 

He  was  chasing  an  automobile 

When  the  wheel  hit  him  right  in  the  side, 


94  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

So  he  just  gave  a  queer  little  squeal 

And  curled  up  and  stretched  out  and  died. 

His  tail  it  was  not  very  long, 

He  was  curly  and  not  very  tall; 

But  he  never  did  anything  wrong  — 

He  was  just  our  dog,  mister  —  that's  all. 

Anonymous 


ODE  ON  THE  DOG 

My  pitch-dark  angel  with  a  rosy  tongue ! 

My  own!  —  my  own! 
Why  can't  the  grown-up  things  we  live  among 

Let  us  alone? 
Why  do  they  have  to  talk  the  livelong  day 

About  such  silly  things? 
But  if  they  must,  —  why  can't  they,  anyway, 

Have  either  tails  or  wings? 

Of  course  I  cannot  love  them  as  they  are, 

As  much  as  you. 
Why  are  n't  they  ever  really  beautiful, 

-—  They,  too?  — 

With  curly  coats,  like  wool; 

And  floppy  ears  to  pull; 

Yes,  and  a  wide  pink  mouth,  with  such  a  smile  I 
Yes,  and  a  tail  that  beats  time  all  the  while; 

Beautiful!  beautiful! 

And  golden  stars,  for  eyes, 

Behind  the  darkest  trees 

(Till  your  hair 's  parted) ! 

Why  can't  they  have  such  darling  ways  as  these?  — 
Why  can't  they  be  so  lovely  when  they  sneeze?  — 


ODE  ON  THE  DOG  95 

Why  can't  they  ever  be  so  tender-hearted, 
Or  even  look  so  wise 

As  you?  — 

My  wonderful !  (even  if  you  won't  say  "  mew  ") ; 
My  true  prince  in  disguise ! 

Why  can't  they  be 

As  funny,  when  they  try  to  sing  a  song? 
And  when,  for  everything  that  I  can  do, 

They  won't  agree,  — 
Why  can't  they  think  they  're  always  in  the  wrong? 

—  Like  you ! 

Why  you,  —  O  precious  thing  — 
You  are  swift  (almost)  as  any  sparrow.  — 
Over  the  tall  grass  how  you  arch  and  spring, 

Yes,  like  a  bow  and  arrow!  — 
Oh,  and  how  good  to  see  you,  when  it  snows, 
Plough  a  long,  lovely  pathway  with  your  nose ! 

(No  grown-up  could  do  it, 

I  suppose.) 

My  dearest  blessing  and  my  very  own, 

Even  when  I  am  grown, 

Never  do  you  forsake  me ! 
If  you  don't  go  to  heaven  when  you  die, 

—  Neither  will  I: 

Nothing  can  ever  make  me ! 
I  won't  go 

For  all  that  they  can  do. 
No:  on  the  steps  outside,  and  down,  below, 

Forever  and  ever  and  ever,  I  '11  stay  too ! 

—  With  you. 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 


p6  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

"'    LITTLE  LOST  PUP 

He  was  lost!  —  Not  a  shade  of  doubt  of  that; 

For  he  never  barked  at  a  slinking  cat, 

But  stood  in  the  square  where  the  wind  blew 

raw, 

With  a  drooping  ear,  and  a  trembling  paw, 
And  a  mournful  look  in  his  pleading  eye, 
And  a  plaintive  sniff  at  the  passer-by 
That  begged  as  plain  as  a  tongue  could  sue, 
"  Oh,  Mister,  please  may  I  follow  you?  " 
A  lorn,  wee  waif  of  a  tawny  brown 
Adrift  in  the  roar  of  a  heedless  town. 
Oh,  the  saddest  of  sights  in  a  world  of  sin 
Is  a  little  lost  pup  with  his  tail  tucked  in ! 

Well,  he  won  my  heart  (for  I  set  great  store 
On  my  own  red  Bute,  who  is  here  no  more) 
So  I  whistled  clear,  and  he  trotted  up, 
And  who  so  glad  as  that  small  lost  pup? 

Now  he  shares  my  board,  and  he  owns  my  bed, 
And  he  fairly  shouts  when  he  hears  my  tread. 
Then  if  things  go  wrong,  as  they  sometimes  do, 
And  the  world  is  cold,  and  I  'm  feeling  blue, 
He  asserts  his  right  to  assuage  my  woes 
With  a  warm,  red  tongue  and  a  nice,  cold  nose, 
And  a  silky  head  on  my  arm  or  knee, 
And  a  paw  as  soft  as  a  paw  can  be. 

When  we  rove  the  woods  for  a  league  about 
He's  as  full  of  pranks  as  a  school  let  out; 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG    97 

For  he  romps  and  frisks  like  a  three-months  colt, 
And  he  runs  me  down  like  a  thunder-bolt. 
Oh,  the  blithest  of  sights  in  the  world  so  fair 
Is  a  gay  little  pup  with  his  tail  in  air! 

Anonymous 

ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song, 
And  if  you  find  it  wond'rous  short, 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

The  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends, 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 


98  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets 
The  wondering  neighbors  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seem'd  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied; 

The  man  recover'd  of  the  bite, 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

Oliver  Goldsmith 


BEHIND  THE  MUZZLE 

I  am  feeling  ache-and-ouchy, 

And  considerable  grouchy; 
I  am  not  a  firm  believer  in  the  charity  of  Man. 

All  my  fine  ideals  have  vanished, 

And  I  feel  as  one  who,  banished, 
Loses  all  respect  and  fervor  for  th'  Land-of-Free- 
dom  plan. 

When  a  handsome  dog  is  muzzled, 

He  is  filled  with  doubt  and  puzzled, 
For  behind  a  wire  enclosure,  he 's  a  prisoner  of  Fate. 

Just  imagine  —  being  tailored,     , 

By  a  plumber-man,  and  jailored, 
With  your  whiskers  in  a  tangle  and  your  soul  con- 
sumed with  hate. 


REMARKS  TO  MY  GROWN-UP  PUP     99 

Muzzles  keep  you  from  exploring, 
And  if  mutton-chops  were  pouring 
From  the  pantry,  you  could  never  even  get  a  scrap 

of  meat. 

They  are  in  your  way  forever, 
And,  of  course,  are  sure  to  sever 
You   from  catching  even  chipmunks,  or  the  cats 
along  the  street. 

But  humiliation  frets  me, 
And  my  every  look  upsets  me, 
When  I  see  that  durn  creation  fastened  on  my  re- 
gal face.       ? 

What  if  Man  should  wear  such  cages 
On  his  mug  .  .  .  newspaper  pages 
Would  be  filled  with  rabid  protest  and  the  talk  of 
his  disgrace. 

All  my  lady  friends  are  grinning, 
Me  —  whose  ways  were  once  so  winning. 
I  must  skulk  along  and  sniffle  in  a  barricade  of  wire. 
Down  with  Law  —  and  all  its  coppers, 
For  their  tarnal  canine  hoppers, 
That  fill  any  peaceful  doggie  with  a  great  and 
mighty  ire. 

W.  Livingston  Lamed 

REMARKS  TO  MY  GROWN-UP  PUP 

By  rules  of  fitness  and  of  tense, 

By  all  old  canine  precedents, 
Oh  Adult  Dog,  the  time  is  up 
When  I  may  fondly  call  you  pup  — 

The  years  have  sped  since  first  you  stood, 

In  straddle-legged  puppyhood,  — 


ioo  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

A  watch-pup,  proud  of  your  renown, 

Who  barked  so  hard  you  tumbled  down. 
In  Age's  gain  and  Youth's  retreat 
You  *ve  found  more  team-work  for  your  feet, 

You  drool  a  soup^on  less,  and  hark! 

There 's  fuller  meaning  to  your  bark. 
But  answer  fairly,  whilom  pup, 
Are  these  full  proof  of  growing  up? 

I  heard  an  elephantine  tread 
That  jarred  the  rafters  overhead: 

Who  leaped  in  mad  abandon  there 

And  tossed  my  slippers  in  the  air? 
Who,  sitting  gravely  on  the  rug, 
Espied  a  microscopic  bug 

And  stalked  it,  gaining  bit  by  bit,  — 

Then  leapt  in  air  and  fell  on  it? 
Who  gallops  madly  down  the  breeze 
Pursuing  specks  that  no  one  sees, 

Then  finds  some  ancient  boot  instead 

And  worries  it  till  it  is  dead? 

I  have  no  adult  friends  who  choose 

To  gnaw  the  shoe-strings  from  my  shoes,  — 

Who  eat  up  twine  and  paper  scraps 

And  bark  while  they  are  taking  naps. 
Oh  Dog,  you  offer  every  proof 
That  stately  age  yet  holds  aloof. 

Grown  up?  There's  meaning  in  the  phrase, 

Of  dignity  as  well  as  days. 
Oh  why  such  size,  beloved  pup?  — 
You  7ve  grown  enough,  but  not  grown  up. 

Surges  Johnson 


WALKING  A  PUPPY  101- 

WALKING  A  PUPPY 

"  Will  you  walk  a  puppy?  "  The  Hunt  enquired. 
Being  sportsmen,  we  did  as  the  Hunt  desired; 
And  early  in  June  there  arrived  a  man 
With  an  innocent  bundle  of  white  and  tan, 
A  fat  little  foxhound,  bred  to  the  game, 
With  a  rollicking  eye  and  a  league-long  name, 
And  he  played  with  a  cork  on  the  end  of  a 

string; 
And  walking  a  puppy  was  "  just  the  thing." 

But  the  days  went  by  and  the  bundle  grew, 
And  broke  the  commandments  and  stole  and 

slew, 

And  covered  the  lawn  with  a  varied  loot 
Of  fowl  and  feather  and  bone  and  boot, 
And  scratched  in  the  garden  a  hundred  holes, 
And  wearied  our  bodies  and  damned  our  souls, 
As  we  chased  him  over  the  plots,  and  swore 
There  was  "  walking  a  puppy"  for  us  no  more! 

If  he 's  half  as  good  in  a  woodland  ride 
As  he  is  at  tucking  young  ducks  inside, 
And  half  as  keen  on  the  scent  of  a  fox 
As  he  is  at  finding  my  red  silk  socks, 
It  is  safe  to  bet  when  our  hound  goes  back 
He  will  make  a  name  in  a  ducal  pack, 
For  he  '11  empty  a  cover  —  of  beef  or  brose, 
And  he  '11  stick  to  a  line  —  if  it 's  hung  with 
clothes ! 

Will  H.  Ogilvie 


102  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

HORSE,  DOG,  AND  MAN 

The  horse  and  the  dog  had  tamed  a  man  and  fas- 
tened him  to  a  fence: 

Said  the  horse  to  the  dog:  "  For  the  life  of  me,  I 
don't  see  a  bit  of  sense 

In  letting  him  have  the  thumbs  that  grow  at  the 
sides  of  his  hands.  Do  you?  " 

And  the  dog  looked  solemn  and  shook  his  head,  and 
said:  " I 'm  a  goat  if  I  do ! " 

The  poor  man  groaned  and  tried  to  get  loose,  and 

sadly  he  begged  them,  "  Stay! 
You  will  rob  me  of  things  for  which  I  have  use  by 

cutting  my  thumbs  away ! 
You  will  spoil  my  looks,  you  will  cause  me  pain;  ah, 

why  would  you  treat  me  so? 
As  I  am,  God  made  me,  and  He  knows  best!  Oh, 

masters,  pray  let  me  go ! " 

The  dog  laughed  out,  and  the  horse  replied,  "  Oh, 

the  cutting  won't  hurt  you,  see? 
We  '11  have  a  hot  iron  to  clap  right  on,  as  you  did  in 

your  docking  of  me ! 
God  gave  you  your  thumbs  and  all,  but  still,  the 

Creator,  you  know,  may  fail      ' 
To  do  the  artistic  thing,  as  He  did  in  the  furnishing 

me  with  a  tail." 

So  they  bound  the  man  and  cut  off  his  thumbs,  and 

were  deaf  to  his  pitiful  cries. 
And  they  seared  the  stumps,  and  they  viewed  their 

work  through  happy  and  dazzled  eyes. 


HORSE,  DOG,  AND  MAN  103 

"  How  trim  he  appears,"  the  horse  exclaimed, 
"  since  his  awkward  thumbs  are  gone ! 

For  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  see  why  the  Lord  ever 
put  them  on ! " 

"Still  it  seems  to  me,"  the  dog  replied,  "that 

there's  something  else  to  do; 
His  ears  look  rather  too  long  for  me,  and  how  do 

they  look  to  you?  " 
The  man  cried  out:  "Oh,  spare  my  ears!  God 

fashioned  them  as  you  see, 
And  if  you  apply  your  knife  to  them,  you  '11  surely 

disfigure  me." 

"  But  you  did  n't  disfigure  me,  you  know,"  the  dog 

decisively  said, 
"  When  you  bound  me  fast  and  trimmed  my  ears 

down  close  to  the  top  of  my  head ! " 
So  they  let  him  moan  and  they  let  him  groan  while 

they  cropped  his  ears  away, 
And  they  praised  his  looks  when  they  let  him  up, 

and  proud  indeed  were  they. 

But  that  was  years  and  years  ago,  in  an  unen- 
lightened age ! 

Such  things  are  ended,  now,  you  know;  we've 
reached  a  higher  stage. 

The  ears  and  thumbs  God  gave  to  man  are  his  to 
keep  and  wear, 

And  the  cruel  horse  and  dog  look  on,  and  never 
appear  to  care. 

S.  E.  Kiser 


104  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

DOG-GREL  VERSES,  BY  A  POOR  BLIND 

Oh,  what  shall  I  do  for  a  dog? 
Of  sight  I  have  not  got  a  particle, 

Globe,  Standard,  or  Sun, 

Times,  Chronicle  —  none 
Can  give  me  a  good  leading  article. 

A  Mastiff  once  led  me  about, 

But  people  appeared  so  to  fear  him  — 

I  might  have  got  pence 

Without  his  defence, 
But  Charity  would  not  come  near  him. 

A  Bloodhound  was  not  much  amiss, 
But  instinct  at  last  got  the  upper; 
And  tracking  Bill  Soames, 
And  thieves  to  their  homes, 
I  never  could  get  home  to  supper. 

A  Fox-hound  once  served  me  as  guide, 
A  good  one  at  hill  and  at  valley; 

But  day  after  day 

He  led  me  astray, 
To  follow  a  milk-woman's  tally. 

A  Turnspit  once  did  me  good  turns 
At  going  and  crossing  and  stopping; 

Till  one  day  his  breed 

Went  off  at  full  speed, 
To  spit  at  a  great  fire  in  Wapping. 

A  Pointer  once  pointed  my  way, 

But  did  not  turn  out  quite  so  pleasant; 


DOG-GREL  VERSES,  BY  A  POOR  BLIND     105 

Each  hour  I M  a  stop 
At  a  poulterer's  shop 
To  point  at  a  very  high  pheasant. 

A  Pug  did  not  suit  me  at  all, 
The  feature  unluckily  rose  up; 

And  folk  took  offence 

When  offering  pence, 
Because  of  his  turning  his  nose  up. 

A  butcher  once  gave  me  a  dog, 

That  turned  out  the  worst  one  of  any; 

A  Bull-dog's  own  pup, 

I  got  a  toss  up, 
Before  he  had  brought  me  a  penny. 

My  next  was  a  Westminster  dog, 
From  Aistrop  the  regular  cadger; 

But,  sightless,  I  saw 

He  never  would  draw 
A  blind  man  so  well  as  a  badger. 

A  Greyhound  I  got  by  a  swap, 

But,  Lord,  we  soon  came  to  divorces; 

He  treated  my  strip 

Of  cord  like  a  slip, 
And  left  me  to  go  my  own  courses. 

A  Poodle  once  towed  me  along, 
But  always  we  came  to  one  harbor; 

To  keep  his  curls  smart, 

And  shave  his  hind  part, 
He  constantly  called  on  a  barber. 


io6  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

My  next  was  a  Newfoundland  brute, 
As  big  as  a  calf  fit  for  slaughter; 

But  my  old  cataract 

So  truly  he  backed 
I  always  fell  into  the  water. 

I  once  had  a  Sheep-dog  for  guide, 
His  worth  did  not  value  a  button; 

I  found  it  no  go, 

A  Smithfield  Ducrow, 
To  stand  on  four  saddles  of  mutton. 

My  next  was  an  Esquimaux  dog, 

A  dog  that  my  bones  ache  to  talk  on; 

For  picking  his  ways 

On  frosty  cold  days 
He  picked  out  the  slides  for  a  walk  on. 

Bijou  was  a  lady-like  dog, 

But  vexed  me  at  night  not  a  little; 

When  tea-time  was  come 

She  would  not  go  home, 
Her  tail  had  once  trailed  a  tin  kettle. 

I  once  had  a  sort  of  a  shock, 

And  kissed  a  street  post  like  a  brother; 

And  lost  every  tooth 

In  learning  this  truth  — 
One  blind  cannot  well  lead  another. 

A  Terrier  was  far  from  a  trump, 
He  had  one  defect,  and  a  thorough; 


DOG-GREL  VERSES,  BY  A  POOR  BLIND     107 

I  never  could  stir, 
'Od  rabbit  the  cur! 
Without  going  into  the  Borough. 

My  next  was  Dalmatian,  the  dog! 
And  led  me  in  danger,  oh  crikey! 

By  chasing  horse  heels, 

Between  carriage  wheels, 
Till  I  came  upon  boards  that  were  spiky. 

The  next  that  I  had  was  from  Cross, 
And  once  was  a  favorite  spaniel 

With  Nero,  now  dead, 

And  so  I  was  led 
Right  up  to  his  den  like  a  Daniel. 

A  Mongrel  I  tried,  and  he  did, 
As  far  as  the  profit  and  lossing, 

Except  that  the  kind 

Endangers  the  blind, 
The  breed  is  so  fond  of  a  crossing. 

A  Setter  was  quite  to  my  taste, 

In  alleys  or  streets  broad  or  narrow, 

Till  one  day  I  met 

A  very  dead  set, 
At  a  very  dead  horse  in  a  barrow. 

I  once  had  a  dog  that  went  mad, 
And  sorry  I  was  that  I  got  him; 

It  came  to  a  run, 

And  a  man  with  a  gun 
Peppered  me  when  he  ought  to  have  shot  him. 


io8  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

My  profits  have  gone  to  the  dogs, 
My  trade  has  been  such  a  deceiver, 

I  fear  that  my  aim 

Is  a  mere  losing  game, 
Unless  I  can  find  a  Retriever. 

Thomas  Hood 


THE  OULD  HOUND 

When  Shamus  made  shift  wid  a  turf-hut 
He'd  naught  but  a  hound  to  his  name; 

And  whither  he  went  thrailed  the  ould  friend, 
Dog-faithful  and  iver  the  same! 

And  he  'd  gnaw  thro'  a  rope  in  the  night-time, 

He'd  eat  thro'  a  wall  or  a  door, 
He  'd  shwim  thro'  a  lough  in  the  winther, 

To  be  wid  his  master  wanst  more! 

And  the  two,  faith,  would  share  their  last  bannock; 

They'd  share  their  last  collop  and  bone;  -' 
And  deep  in  the  starin'  ould  sad  eyes 

Lean  Shamus  would  stare  wid  his  own! 

And  loose  hung  the  flanks  av  the  ould  hound 
When  Shamus  lay  sick  on  his  bed  — 

Ay,  waitin'  and  watchin'  wid  sad  eyes, 
He'd  eat  not  av  bone  or  av  bread! 

But  Shamus  be  springtime  grew  betther, 

And  a  trouble  came  into  his  mind; 
And  he  'd  take  himself  off  to  the  village, 

And  be  leavin'  his  hound  behind! 


I  HAD  A  DOG  109 

And  deep  was  the  whine  of  the  ould  dog 
Wid  a  love  that  was  deeper  than  life  — 

But  be  Michaelmas,  faith,  it  was  whispered 
That  Shamus  was  takin'  a  wife ! 

A  wife  and  a  fine  house  he  got  him; 

In  a  shay  he  went  drivin5  around; 
And  I  met  him  be  chance  at  the  cross-roads, 

And  I  says  to  him, "  How 's  the  ould  hound?" 

"  My  wife  never  took  to  that  ould  dog," 

Says  he,  wid  a  shrug  av  his  slats, 
"  So  we  've  got  us  a  new  dog  from  Galway, 

And  och,  he's  the  divilfor  rats!  " 

Arthur  Stringer 


I  HAD  A  DOG 

Bewhiskered  sprite 

Of  unrestrained  delight, 

As  yet,  un-named, 

Flea-tortured,  and  untamed, 

All  hail !  But  do  not  get 

Excited.  'T  was  a  joke; 

Most  thoughtlessly  I  spoke: 

Peace!  Do  not  fret! 

Thy  dizzy  circlings  never  shall  avail 

Thee  aught,  thou  antic  scrub, 

To  catch  that  stub 

Which  might  have  been  but  is  not  quite  a  tail. 

The  world  is  all  before  thee,  lucky  wight ! 

Three  meals  a  day,  and  that  which  thou  may'st  find 


no  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Deliciously  forbidden.  And  at  night 

A  cosy  bed,  wherein  a  bacon-rind 

Is  buried,  till  its  essence  makes  it  known, 

And  out  it  goes;  also  that  cherished  bone, 

Despite  thy  wild  anxiety  to  keep 

Such  treasures  buried  round  thee  in  thy  sleep. 

How  thy  small  heart 

Must  palpitate  to  part 

With  these  choice  things ! 

And  how  thy  nose, 

Contemptuous,  plainly  shows 

Indifference  to  the  food  thy  master  brings ! 

Ah,  well!  Thou  had'st  no  choice 

In  finding  this  great  world 

Wherein  thou  dost  rejoice 

With  energies  unfurled 

And  flaunted  in  the  face  of  stern,  sad  laws 

That  make  thee  think 

All  soap,  white,  blue  or  pink 

And  sweet,  may  be  regretted  with  good  cause. 

'T  is  sad  thou  shouldst  regret 

Upon  the  coverlet, 

Of  my  proud  bed. 

I  ask  thee,  pup,  why  not, 

Upon  yon  vacant  lot, 

Instead? 

Still,  I  forgive  thee !  Hence,  and  go  thy  way 
Thou  pink-eyed  satyr; 


I  HAD  A  DOG  in 

To-day  is  all  thy  day, 

And  so,  what  matter? 

Growl  at  the  pattern  of  the  fearsome  rug; 

Bring  forth  lost  slippers: 

Challenge  to  battle  yon  slow  beetle-bug, 

Yes,  he  has  nippers ! 

Tug  at  the  curtains,  they  are  naught  but  lace: 

Yea!  chew  that  rope, 

'T  is  tough  and  in  thee  should  not  find  a  place, 

Yet  *t  is  not  soap. 

Disport  thyself;  this  home  is  wholly  thine, 

Or  take  thine  ease. 

Explore  thy  pasture  for  elusive  fleas; 

Yea,  scratch  and  whine. 

E'en  thy  full  joy   * 

Must  suffer  some  alloy, 

For  that  is  Life. 

Yet,  fortunate  thy  lot, 

For  thou  hast  not 

An  automobile,  taxes  or  a  wife! 

Thy  keen,  all-seeing  eyes, 

Thy  bold  pretense, 

Thy  hurt,  insidious  guise 

Of  innocence : 

Thy  nip  to  see  how  hard  thou  dar'st  to  bite; 

Thy  tongue,  apologetic,  warm  and  wet: 

Thy  earnest  effort  that  I  should  forget 

Thy  sins,  outright: 

Thy  stealthy  explorations  and  thy  bark 

On  finding  that  the  dining-room  is  dark: 


ii2  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Thy  sly  intent 

To  steal  yon  swaying,  tasseled  ornament  — 

Thou  wild,  untutored  elf, 

Canst  in  this  artless  etching  see  thyself? 

Yea,  grin!  Yet  wouldst  thou  woefully  be  missed 

Shouldst  thou  elope 

With  some  fond  hope 

Of  finding  fairer  fields,  thou  anarchist! 

O.  R. 


TIM,  AN  IRISH  TERRIER 

It's  wonderful  dogs  they're  breeding  now; 

Small  as  a  flea  or  large  as  a  cow ; 

But  my  old  lad  Tim  he  '11  never  be  bet 

By  any  dog  that  ever  he  met. 

"  Come  on,"  says  he,  "  for  I'm  not  kilt  yet." 

No  matter  the  size  of  the  dog  he  '11  meet, 
Tim  trails  his  coat  the  length  o'  the  street. 
D  'ye  mind  his  scars  an'  his  ragged  ear, 
The  like  of  a  Dublin  Fusilier? 
He 's  a  massacree  dog  that  knows  no  fear. 

But  he'd  stick  to  me  till  his  latest  breath; 
An'  he  'd  go  with  me  to  the  gates  of  death. 
He  'd  wait  for  a  thousand  years,  maybe, 
Scratching  the  door  an'  whining  for  me 
If  myself  were  inside  in  Purgatoree. 

So  I  laugh  when  I  hear  thim  make  it  plain 
That  dogs  and  men  never  meet  again. 


THE  SCHOLAR'S  DOG  113 

For  all  their  talk,  who  'd  listen  to  thim, 
With  the  soul  in  the  shining  eyes  of  him? 
Would  God  be  wasting  a  dog  like  Tim? 

Winifred  M.  Letts 


THE  SCHOLAR'S  DOG 

I  was  a  scholar:  seven  useful  springs 

Did  I  deflower  in  quotations 

Of  crossed  opinions  'bout  the  soul  of  man; 

The  more  I  learnt,  the  more  I  learnt  to  doubt. 

"  Delight,"  my  spaniel,  slept  whilst  I  baused  leaves, 

Tossed  o'er  the  dunces,  pored  on  the  old  print 

Of  titled  words:  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

Whilst  I  wasted  lamp-oil,  baited  my  flesh, 

Shrunk  up  my  veins:  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

And  still  I  held  converse  with  Zabarell, 

Aquinas,  Scotus,  and  the  musty  saw 

Of  Antick  Donate:  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

Still  on  went  I;  first,  "  an  sit  anima;" 

Then,  an  it  were  mortal.  O  hold,  hold;  at  that 

They  're  at  brain  buffets,  fell  by  the  ears  amain 

Pell-mell  together:  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

Then,  whether  't  were  corporeal,  local,  fixt, 

"  Ex  traduce,"  but  whether  't  had  free-will 

Or  no,  hot  philosophers 

Stood  banding  factions,  all  so  strongly  propt; 

I  staggered,  knew  not  which  was  firmer  part, 

But  thought,  quoted,  read,  observed,  and  pried, 

Stuff  t  noting-books :  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

At  length  he  waked,  and  yawned;  and,  by  yon  sky. 

For  aught  I  know,  he  knew  as  much  as  I. 

John  Mars  ton 


H4  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

HIS  GOOD  POINTS 

The  Judges  all  agree  that  I  'm 

Well  nigh  a  perfect  Peke, 
And,  at  the  dog  shows,  every  time 

In  highest  praise  they  speak. 
Look  down  my  list  of  pedigrees, 

Glance  o'er  my  standard  points: 
I  'm  "  class  "  from  forehead,  if  you  please, 

To  nose,  and  second  joints. 

Head  —  massive,  broad,  wide  'twixt  th'  eyes 

Nose  —  black,  and  short  and  flat  — - 
Eyes  — •  large  and  lustrous  —  very  wise  — 

Ears  —  heart-shaped  —  low  at  that. 
A  Muzzle  short  and  broad;  a  Mane  — 

Profuse,  with  frill  and  ruff. 
And,  Shape  of  Body!  well  I'm  vain, 

The  Judges  praised  enough. 

My  Coat  and  Feather,  critics  say, 

Bar  none,  are  paramount. 
And  Color  records  come  my  way 

As  fast  as  I  can  count. 
Legs  —  short  —  at  elbows,  bowing  out, 

Feet  —  flat,  with  weight  on  toes. 
Tail  —  curled,  and  muchly  talked  about, 

Because  of  classic  pose. 

In  Size,  I  'm  all  that  connoisseurs 

Would  reckon  trim  and  right, 
A  toy,  my  weight  —  the  miniatures, 

Whilst  fractions  gauge  my  height. 


AN  EPITAPH  — 1792  115 

Ten  pounds  of  pedigree,  am  I; 

A  Peke  of  noble  rank! 
But,  when  it  comes  to  temper  —  my! 

I  guess  I  draw  a  blank. 

W.  Livingston  Larned 

TO  A  PUPPY 

Oh,  puppy  with  the  floppy  ears 

And  waggly  rear  appendage  — 
And  once-white  coat  that  now  with  shears 

Looks  like  it  needed  mendage; 

You  atom  of  dogginity  — 

To  see  you  frisk  and  frolic 
Right  close  to  my  vicinity 

Cheers  all  my  melancholic. 

Lewette  Beauchamp  Pollock 

*     TRAGEDY 

A  high  bred  young  puppy  from  Skye 
Searched  long  and  in  vain  for  his  eye, 
For  his  mistress  with  care 
Had  combed  his  long  hair 
O'er  the  place  where  these  orbs  ought  to  lie. 

Anonymous 

v    AN  EPITAPH  —  1792 

Here  lies  one,  who  never  drew 
Blood  himself,  yet  many  slew; 
Gave  the  gun  its  aim  and  figure 
Made  in  field,  yet  ne'er  pulled  trigger. 


n6  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Armed  men  have  gladly  made 
Him  their  guide,  and  him  obey'd. 
At  his  signified  desire, 
Would  advance,  present,  and  fire  .  . . 

Stout  he  was,  and  large  of  limb, 
Scores  have  fled  at  sight  of  him; 
And  to  all  this  fame  he  rose 
Only  following  his  nose. 
Neptune  was  he  calPd,  not  he 
Who  controls  the  boist'rous  sea, 
But  of  happier  command, 
Neptune  of  the  furrow'd  land; 
And,  your  wonder  vain  to  shorten, 
Pointer  to  Sir  John  Throckmorton. 

William  Cowper 

TO  TOWSER 

No  pampered  pound  of  peevish  fluff 

That  goggles  from  a  lady's  muff 

Art  thou,  my  Towser.  In  the  park 

Thy  form  occasions  no  remark 

Unless  it  be  a  friendly  call 

From  soldiers  walking  in  the  Mall, 

Or  the  impertinence  of  pugs 

Stretched  at  their  ease  on  carriage  rugs. 

For  thou  art  sturdy  and  thy  fur 

Is  rougher  than  the  prickly  burr; 

Thy  manners  brusque,  thy  deep  "  bow-wow 

(Inherited,  but  Lord  knows  how!) 

Far  other  than  the  frenzied  yaps 

That  emanate  from  ladies'  laps. 


TO  TOWSER  117 


Thou  art,  in  fact,  of  doggy  size 

And  hast  the  brown  and  faithful  eyes, 

So  full  of  love,  so  void  of  blame 

That  fill  a  master's  heart  with  shame,  — 

Because  he  knows  he  never  can 

Be  more  a  dog  and  less  a  man. 

No  champion  of  a  hundred  shows, 
The  prey  of  every  draught  that  blows, 
Art  thou;  in  fact  thy  charms  present 
The  earmarks  of  a  mixed  descent. 
And  though  too  proud  to  start  a  fight 
With  every  cur  that  looms  in  sight, 
None  ever  saw  thee  quail  beneath 
A  foeman  worthy  of  thy  teeth. 

Thou  art,  in  brief,  a  model  hound, 

Not  so  much  beautiful  as  sound 

In  heart  and  limb;  not  always  strong 

When  nose  and  eyes  impel  to  wrong. 

Nor  always  doing  just  as  bid 

But  sterling  as  the  minted  "  quid," 

And  I  have  loved  thee  in  my  fashion, 
Shared  with  thy  face  my  frugal  ration, 
Squandered  my  balance  at  the  bank 
When  thou  didst  chew  the  postman's  shank, 
And  gone  in  debt  replacing  stocks 
Of  private  cats  and  Plymouth  Rocks. 

And,  when  they  claimed  the  annual  fee 
That  seals  the  bond  'twixt  thee  and  me, 
Against  harsh  Circumstance's  edge, 
Did  I  not  put  my  fob  in  pledge 


n8  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

And  cheat  the  minions  of  excise 
Who  otherwise  had  ta'en  thee  prize? 

And  thou  with  leaps  of  lightsome  mood 
Didst  bark  eternal  gratitude 
And  seek  my  feelings  to  assail 
With  agitations  of  the  tail. 

Yet  are  there  beings  lost  to  grace 
Who  claim  that  thou  art  out  of  place,  — 
That  when  the  dogs  of  war  are  loose 
Domestic  kinds  are  void  of  use, 
And  that  a  chicken  or  a  hog 
Should  take  the  place  of  every  dog, 
Which  though,  with  appetite  endued, 
Is  not  itself  a  source  of  food. 

What!  shall  we  part?  Nay,  rather  we'll 
Renounce  the  cheap  but  wholesome  meal 
That  men  begrudge  us,  and  we  '11  take 
Our  leave  of  bones  and  puppy  cake. 
Back  to  the  woods  we  '11  hie,  and  there 
Thou  'It  hunt  the  fleet  but  fearful  hare, 
Pursue  the  hedge's  prickly  pig, 
Dine  upon  rabbits'  eggs  and  dig 
With  practiced  paw  and  eager  snuffle 
The  shy  but  oh!  so  toothsome  truffle. 

Cyril  Br  ether  ton 

THE  JOY  OF  PEDIGREE 

Some  dogs  I  know  play  in  the  street, 
Have  cans  tied  neatly  to  their  tails ; 

Some  run  along  with  sloppy  feet, 
Or  hug  the  muddy  road,  like  snails. 


THE  JOY  OF  PEDIGREE  119 

Of  course,  the  common  sort  must  thrive 
And  careless  kinds  of  canines  be  — 

But  I  am  glad  that  I  'm  alive 
And  have  a  stylish  pedigree. 

Some  pups  I've  seen  eat  common  stuff, 

Plant  bones  and  other  silly  stunts; 
They  fight  and  pull  each  other  —  "  rough," 

Is  what  I  heard  folks  term  it,  once. 
Some  dogs  mix  with  the  vulgar  crowd; 

But  none  of  that  for  petted  me, 
Thank  goodness,  Royalty's  allowed: 

/  'm  for  a  dash  of  pedigree. 

Some  animals  of  lower  class 

Mix  with  the  crudest  forms  of  man, 
Chase  mice,  and  even  skunks,  alas! 

Improvident  —  a  lowly  clan. 
But  I  —  plush  pillows  for  my  head; 

Pure  cream  —  by  doctor's  orders  —  see? 
A  fleecy,  flossy  sort  of  bed, 

The  which  goes  with  a  pedigree. 

Run  alleys  —  stay  out  nights  and  bark: 

Grow  hoarse,  loud-mouthing  at  th1  moon; 
Chase  chipmunks  in  th'  plebeian  Park, 

Your  wastrel  ways  will  get  you  soon, 
I  want  my  swift  ride  in  the  car; 

I  want  the  chauffeur's  livery; 
Bring  on  your  wealth,  where  comforts  are, 

Vm  glad  to  have  my  pedigree. 

W.  Livingston  Lamed 


120        SONGS  OF  DOGS 

TO  A  DACHSHOUND 

My  faithful  Peter,  mount  upon  my  knee, 
And  shame  me  with  the  patience  of  your  eyes, 

Till  I  for  divers  patriots  that  be 
Humbly  apologize  — 

Not  for  the  street-boy,  him  you  had  for  years 
And,  knowing,  make  allowance  for  his  ways, 

If  hoots  of  ignorance  and  stones  and  jeers 
Martyr  your  latter  days; 

But  for  such  shoddy  patriots  as  join 

The  street-boy's  manners  to  a  petty  mind, 

And  dealing  little  in  true  minted  coin, 
Tender  the  baser  kind. 

For  instance,  Smith  (till  lately,  Griindelhorn) 
Who  meets  you  with  your  mistress  all  alone, 

And  growls:  "  a  German  beast,"  with  senseless 

scorn, 
In  a  (still)  guttural  tone. 

And  Jones,  who  owes  his  mansion  to  the  War 
And  loves  to  drown  great  luncheons  in  cham- 
pagne, 

But  who  to  prove  he  loves  his  England  more, 
Strikes  at  you  with  his  cane  — 

The  while  Miss  Podsnap,  who  in  dogs  can  brook 
No  name  that  smacks  of  Teuton,  snatches  up, 

Lest  you  contaminate  it  with  a  look, 
Her  Pomeranian  pup. 


TO  A  DACHSHOUND  121 

Forgive  them,  Pete!  we  are  not  all  well-bred, 
Not  all  so  wise,  so  sensible  as  you; 

Not  all  our  sires,  for  generations  dead, 
To  British  homes  were  true. 

Yet  prizing  steadfast  love  and  fealty,  some 
The  gulf  of  their  deficiencies  may  span, 

And  learn  of  you  the  virtues  that  become 
An  English  gentleman. 

E.  T.  Hopkins 


THE  HAPPY  HUNTING  GROUNDS 


MEMORIES 

"No,  no!  If  a  man  does  not  soon  pass  beyond  the 
thought:  'By  what  shall  this  dog  profit  me?J  into  the 
large  state  of  simple  gladness  to  be  with  dog,  he  shall 
never  know  the  very  essence  of  that  companionship  which 
depends,  not  on  the  points  of  a  dog,  but  on  some  strange 
and  subtle  mingling  of  mute  spirits.  For  it  is  by  muteness 
that  a  dog  becomes  for  one  so  utterly  beyond  value;  with 
him  one  is  at  peace,  where  words  play  no  torturing  tricks. 
When  he  just  sits  loving  and  knows  that  he  is  being  loved, 
those  are  the  moments  that  I  think  are  precious  to  a  dog; 
—  when,  with  his  adoring  soul  coming  through  his  eyes9 
he  feels  that  you  are  really  thinking  of  him. 


"Do  they  know  as  we  do  that  their  time  must  come? 
Yes,  they  know  at  rare  moments.  No  other  way  could  I 
interpret  those  pauses  of  his  latter  life  when,  propped  on 
his  forefeet,  he  would  sit  for  long  minutes  quite  motion- 
less —  his  head  drooped,  utterly  withdrawn;  then  turn 
those  eyes  of  his  and  look  at  me.  That  look  said  more 
plainly  than  all  words  could:  '  Yes,  I  know  that  I  must  go  /' 
If  we  have  spirits  that  persist,  they  have.  If  we  know 
after  our  departure,  who  we  were,  they  do.  No  one,  I 
think,  who  really  longs  for  truth,  can  ever  glibly  say 
which  it  will  be  for  dog  and  man  — persistence  or  extinc- 
tion of  our  consciousness." 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


THE  LOST  TRAIL  125 


THE  LOST  TRAIL 

Born  rangers  both  of  us  and  we  were  young, 
Lusty  and  like,  in  that  we  shunned  the  town 
And  loved  the  high,  far  hills  that  overhung 
Great  purple  tides  of  forest  rolling  down 
Into  a  sheer  of  space  that  dimmed  the  eye 
To  gaze  on  overlong.  My  duty  led 
To  many  tasks ;  the  foremost  to  descry 
The  creeping  forest-fire;  my  comrade  bred 
Of  royal  stock  beyond  the  Baltic  sea, 
A  wolf-dog,  ran  the  forest  trails  with  me; 

Ranging  the  brush  a  silent,  silvery  ghost; 
Peering  perchance  across  the  wide  abyss 
Of  some  lost  canon's  desolated  coast 
Wond'ring  what  lay  beyond  the  nothingness; 
Or  breathing  deep  the  taint  of  lion-pad, 
Pausing  with  forefoot  lifted,  questful  eye, 
An  instant  statue  —  then  the  quick,  the  glad 
,Wild  chase  to  catch  the  fleeting  phantasy, 
Till  shadowy  shape  with  shadow  melted  —  then, 
Hearing  my  whistle,  back  to  me  again: 

Or  —  and  uncalled  —  from  out  the  under-maze 
Of  whipping  brush,  he'd  lunge  and  leap  to  bring 
His  kill  to  me,  with  pride  that  I  should  gaze 
Upon  the  still  form  of  the  fleet,  wild  thing; 
Then  spake  his  eyes,  aglow  with  native  pride; 
"  Here  at  your  feet  my  gift  the  kill,  I  lay; 
Forever  will  I  follow  where  you  ride; 
Bid  me  to  go  or  come  —  and  I  obey." 


126  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Such  was  his  blood :  that  thoroughbred,  high  strain 
Of  loyalty,  affection,  courage ;  true 
To  me,  his  god,  though  hunger,  hardship,  pain 
Were  his  reward.  Yet  sometimes  breaking  through 
His  dignity  there  came  a  gleam  of  wit; 
I  dwelling  on  some  sorrow,  some  old  wrong, 
He  'd  act  the  puppy  for  my  benefit ; 
Then  would  he  fling  himself  with  that  deep  song 
Of  battle,  when  the  fighting  prey  is  near, 
Straight  at  my  breast  and  shake  me  from  my  dream 
With  the  brute  shock;  then  jumping  high  and  clear, 
In,  like  a  stroke  of  flame,  out,  like  the  gleam 
Of  dawn  among  the  pines,  till  done  the  play; 
Paws  on  my  shoulder,  quick  breath  on  my  cheek, 
He  'd  tell  me  in  his  big,  warm  friendly  way, 
All  that  his  faithful  soul  would  gladly  speak. 
*    *    * 

Steep  the  lost  trail  and  narrow,  narrower  grew 
Even  to  the  angle  where  it  disappeared. 
I  felt  my  pony  stiffen,  looked  and  knew 
His  sudden  terror  —  what  he  saw  and  feared : 
Crouched  on  the  rock,  as  lithe  as  crawling  mist 
A  mountain-lion  clung.  What  held  my  hand 
Tn  dull  inaction,  helpless  to  resist 
The  threatening  fury,  who  may  understand? 
Only,  I  knew  —  beheld  in  waking  dream 
Of  stupor,  something  past  me  rise  and  creep 
Along  the  ledge;  I  saw  the  sunlight  gleam 
On  a  gray  wolf-dog's  coat;  then,  o'er  the  deep 
Came  a  low  whimper  that  I  read  aright  — 
Farewell  —  not  fear:  There  on  the  canon  rim 
He  quivered  to  the  leap  and  made  his  fight, 
Then  I,  poor  fool,  drew  gun  and  followed  him. 


IN  THE  MANSION  YARD  127 

How  often  on  the  lost  trail  have  I  stood, 
Calling  adown  the  silence  till  there  came 
Faint  from  the  depths  of  starlit  solitude, 
The  old,  beloved  cadence  of  his  name. 
A  memory:  an  echo:  Yet  I  know 
—  Else  is  no  truth  in  dreams  or  voice  of  sleep  — 
He  waits  his  master's  coming,  eyes  aglow, 
An  instant  statue  topping  some  far  steep, 
Or  ranging  through  the  brush  a  silvery  ghost, 
Peering,  perchance,  across  the  wide  abyss 
Of  some  lost  canon's  desolated  coast, 
Wond'ring  what  lies  beyond  the  nothingness. 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 

IN  THE  MANSION  YARD 

There 's  no  need  now  to  look  about  my  feet, 

Or  lift  a  cautious  chair  — 
But  uses  of  old  years  my  senses  cheat, 

And  still  I  think  him  there. 

Along  the  hearth-rug  stretched  in  full  content, 
Fond  of  the  fire  as  I —  ":^-^^'4fc>^ 

Ah !  there  were  some  things  with  the  old  dog  went 
I  had  not  thought  could  die. 

The  flawless  faith  mankind  not  often  earn 

Nor  give,  he  gave  to  me; 
And  that  deep  fondness  in  his  eyes  did  burn 

Mine  own  were  shamed  to  see. 

And  though  to  men  great  Isis,  Isis  is 
But  while  she  wears  her  veil, 


128  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

This  love  looked  on  my  stark  infirmities 
Life-long,  and  did  not  fail. 

And  is  it  clean  gone?  Nay,  an  Indian's  heart 

Have  I,  and  even  in  heaven, 
If  heaven  be  mine,  I  pray  some  humble  part 

To  earth-joys  may  be  given  — 

Far  down  the  ringing  streets,  some  quiet  yard, 

Drowsy  with  afternoon 
And  bees,  with  young  grass  dandelion-starred, 

And  lilacs  breathing  June  — • 

Across  whose  mossy  walls  the  rolling  psalms, 

Like  dream-songs,  come  aloud, 
Shall  float,  and  flying  angels  vex  our  calms 

No  more  than  flying  cloud  — 

Some  nook  within  my  Father's  House,  where  still 

He  lets  me  hide  old  toys, 
Nor  shames  me  even  if  foolish  Memory  will 

Play  with  long  laid-by  joys. 

There  may  my  friend  await,  as  once  on  earth, 

My  step,  my  hand's  caress, 
And  nought  of  Heaven-town  mingle  with  our  mirth 

But  everlastingness. 

William  Hervey  Woods 


"DAVY" 

Davy,  her  Knight,  her  dear,  was  dead, 
Low  in  the  dust  was  the  silken  head, 


DAVY  129 

"Is n't  there  heaven?" 
(She  was  but  seven) 
"  Is  n't  there  (sobbing)  for  dogs?  "  she  said. 

"  Man  is  immortal,  sage  or  fool: 
Animals  end  by  a  different  rule." 

So  had  they  prated 

Of  things  created, 
An  hour  before,  in  her  Sunday-school. 

Trusty  and  glad  and  true,  who  could 
Match  her  hero  of  hardihood, 

Rancorless,  selfless, 

Prideless,  pelfless?  — 
How  I  should  like  to  be  half  so  good! 

Firebrand  eye  and  icicle  nose; 
Ear  inwrought  like  a  guelder  rose ; 

All  the  sweet  wavy 

Beauty  of  Davy!  — 
Sad,  not  to  answer  whither  it  goes! 

"  Is  n't  there  heaven  for  dogs  that 's  dead? 
God  made  Davy  out  of  His  head : 

If  He  unmake  him 

Does  n't  He  take  him? 
Why  should  He  throw  him  away?  "  she  said. 

The  birds  were  busy,  the  brook  was  gay 
But  the  little  hand  was  in  mine  all  day. 
Nothing  could  bury 
That  infinite  query: 
"  Davy  —  would  God  throw  him  away?  " 

Louise  Imogen  Guiney 


I3o  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

THE  CURATE  THINKS  YOU  HAVE  NO 
SOUL 

The  curate  thinks  you  have  no  soul; 

I  know  that  he  has  none.   But  you, 
Dear  friend,  whose  solemn  self-control, 

In  our  four-square  familiar  pew, 
Was  pattern  to  my  youth  —  whose  bark 

Called  me  in  summer  dawns  to  rove  — 
Have  you  gone  down  into  the  dark 

Where  none  is  welcome  —  none  may  love? 
I  will  not  think  those  good  brown  eyes 

Have  spent  their  light  of  truth  so  soon ; 
But  in  some  canine  paradise 

Your  wraith,  I  know,  rebukes  the  moon, 
And  quarters  every  plain  and  hill, 

Seeking  his  master  ...  As  for  me, 
This  prayer  at  least  the  gods  fulfill: 

That  when  I  pass  the  flood  and  see 
Old  Charon  by  the  Stygian  coast 

Take  toll  of  all  the  shades  who  land, 
Your  little,  faithful  barking  ghost 

May  leap  to  lick  my  phantom  hand. 

St.  John  Lucas 

"LADDIE" 

Lowly  the  soul  that  waits 
At  the  white,  celestial  gates, 
A  threshold  soul  to  greet 
Beloved  feet. 

Down  the  streets  that  are  beams  of  sun 
Cherubim  children  run; 


LADDIE  131 


They  welcome  it  from  the  wall; 
Their  voices  call. 

But  the  Warder  saith:  "  Nay,  this 
Is  the  City  of  Holy  Bliss. 
What  claim  canst  thou  make  good 
To  angelhood?  " 

"Joy,"  answereth  it  from  eyes 
That  are  amber  ecstasies, 
Listening,  alert,  elate, 
Before  the  gate. 

Oh,  how  the  frolic  feet 
On  lonely  memory  beat! 
What  rapture  in  a  run 
'Twixt  snow  and  sun! 

"Nay,  brother  of  the  sod, 
What  part  hast  thou  in  God? 
What  spirit  art  thou  of?  " 
It  answers:  "  Love," 

Lifting  its  head,  no  less 
Cajoling  a  caress, 
Our  winsome  collie  wraith, 
Than  in  glad  faith 

The  door  will  open  wide, 
Or  kind  voice  bid:  "  Abide, 
A  threshold  soul  to  greet 
The  longed-for  feet." 


132  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Ah,  Keeper  of  the  Portal, 
If  Love  be  not  immortal, 
If  Joy  be  not  divine, 
What  prayer  is  mine? 

Katharine  Lee  Bates 


GEIST'S  GRAVE 

Four  years !  —  and  didst  thou  stay  above 
The  ground  which  hides  thee  now,  but  four? 

And  all  that  life,  and  all  that  love, 
Were  crowded,  Geist!  into  no  more? 


That  liquid,  melancholy  eye, 
From  whose  pathetic,  soul-fed  springs 

Seem'd  surging  the  Virgilian  cry, 
The  sense  of  tears  in  mortal  things  — 

That  steadfast,  mournful  strain,  consoled 

By  spirits  gloriously  gay, 
And  temper  of  heroic  mould  — 

What!  was  four  years  their  whole  short  day? 

Yes,  only  four !  —  and  not  the  course 

Of  all  the  centuries  yet  to  come, 
And  not  the  infinite  resource 

Of  Nature,  with  her  countless  sum 

Of  figures,  with  her  fulness  vast 

Of  new  creation  evermore, 
Can  ever  quite  repeat  the  past, 

Or  just  thy  little  self  restore. 


GEIST'S  GRAVE  133 

And  so  there  rise  these  lines  of  verse 
On  lips  that  rarely  form  them  now; 

While  to  each  other  we  rehearse ; 

Such  ways,  such  arts,  such  looks  hadst  thou! 

We  stroke  thy  broad  brown  paws  again, 

We  bid  thee  to  thy  vacant  chair, 
We  greet  thee  by  the  window-pane, 

We  hear  thy  scuffle  on  the  stair  — 

We  see  the  flaps  of  thy  large  ears 

Quick  raised  to  ask  which  way  we  go; 

Crossing  the  frozen  lake,  appears 
Thy  small  black  figure  on  the  snow ! 

Nor  to  us  only  art  thou  dear, 

Who  mourn  thee  in  thine  English  home; 
Thou  hadst  thine  absent  master's  tear, 

Dropt  by  the  far  Australian  foam. 

Thy  memory  lasts  both  here  and  there, 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  long  as  we, 

And  after  that  — •  thou  dost  not  care ! 
In  us  was  all  the  world  to  thee. 

Yet,  fondly  zealous  for  thy  fame, 

E'en  to  a  date  beyond  our  own, 
We  strive  to  carry  down  the  name, 

By  moulded  turf  and  graven  stone. 

We  lay  thee,  close  within  our  reach, 

Here,  where  the  grass  is  smooth  and  warm, 

Between  the  holly  and  the  beech, 
Where  oft  we  watched  thy  couchant  form, 


134  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Asleep,  yet  lending  half  an  ear 

To  travellers  on  the  Portsmouth  road ;  — 
There  build  we  thee,  O  guardian  dear, 

Marked  with  a  stone,  thy  last  abode ! 

Then  some,  who  through  this  garden  pass, 
When  we  too,  like  thyself,  are  clay, 

Shall  see  thy  grave  upon  the  grass, 
And  stop  before  the  stone,  and  say: 

People  who  lived  here  long  ago 
Did  by  this  stone,  it  seems,  intend 

To  name  for  future  times  to  know 

The  dachshound,  Geist,  their  little  friend. 
Matthew  Arnold 


"CLUNY" 

I  am  quite  sure  he  thinks  that  I  am  God  — 
Since  He  is  God  on  whom  each  one  depends 
For  life,  and  all  things  that  His  bounty  sends  — 
My  dear  old  dog,  most  constant  of  all  friends; 
Not  quick  to  mind,  but  quicker  far  than  I 
To  Him  whom  God  I  know  and  own;  his  eye 
Deep  brown  and  liquid,  watches  for  my  nod; 
He  is  more  patient  underneath  the  rod 
Than  I,  when  God  His  wise  corrections  sends. 
He  looks  love  at  me,  deep  as  words  e'er  spake; 
And  from  me  never  crumb  or  sup  will  take 
But  wags  thanks  with  his  most  vocal  tail ; 
And  when  some  crashing  noise  wakes  all  his  fear 
He  is  content  and  quiet  if  I  'm  near, 
Secure  that  my  protection  will  prevail; 


ROGER  AND  I  135 

So,  faithful,  mindful,  thankful,  trustful,  he 
Tells  me  what  I  unto  my  God  should  be. 

May  24-25,  1902 

He  had  lived  out  his  life,  but  not  his  love; 
Daily  up  steep  and  weary  stair  he  came, 
His  big  heart  bursting  with  the  strain,  to  prove 
His  loneliness  without  me.  Just  the  same 
Old  word  of  greeting  beamed  in  his  deep  eye, 
With  a  new  look  of  wonder  in  it,  asking  why 
"  The  whole  creation  groans  and  travails." 

He 

And  I  there  faced  the  mystery  of  pain. 
Finding  me  dumb  and  helpless,  down  again 
He  went,  unanswered,  with  the  dawn  to  die, 
And  find  the  mystery  opened  with  the  day : 
"  The  creature  from  corruption's  bondage  free." 
Right  Rev.  William  Croswell  Doane 

ROGER  AND  I 

Well,  Roger,  my  dear  old  doggie,  they  say  that  your 

race  is  run; 
And  our  jolly  tramps  together  up  and  down  the 

world  are  done; 
You  're  only  a  dog,  old  fellow,  a  dog,  and  you  Ve  had 

your  day; 
But  never  a  friend  of  all  my  friends  has  been  truer 

than  you  alway. 

We  *ve  had  glorious  times  together  in  the  fields  and 
pastures  fair; 

In  storm  and  sunny  weather  we  have  romped  with- 
out a  care; 


I36  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

And  however  men  have  treated  me,  though  foul  or 

fair  their  deal  — 
However  many  the  friends  that  failed,  I  've  found 

you  true  as  steel. 


That  's  right,  my  dear  old  f  ellbw,  look  up  with  your 

knowing  eye, 
And  lick  my  hand  with  your  loving  tongue  that 

never  has  told  a  lie; 
And  don't  be  afraid,  old  doggie,  if  your  time  has 

come  to  go, 
For  somewhere  out  in  the  great  Unknown  there  's  a 

place  for  you,  I  know. 


Then  don't  you  worry,  old  Comrade;  and  don't  you 

fear  to  die; 
For  out  in  that  fairer  country  I  will  find  you  by  and 

by; 
And  I  '11  stand  by  you,  old  fellow,  and  our  love  will 

surely  win, 
For  never  a  heaven  shall  harbor  me  where  they 

won't  let  Roger  in. 


When  I  reach  that  City  Glorious,  behind  the  waiting 

dark, 
Just  come  and  stand  outside  the  gate,  and  wag  your 

tail  and  bark  — 

I  '11  hear  your  voice,  and  I  '11  know  it,  and  I  '11  come 

to  the  gate  and  say: 

II  Saint  Peter,  that  's  my  dog  out  there,  you  must  let 

him  come  this  way." 


TO  JOHN,  MY  COLLIE  137 

And  then  if  the  saint  refuses,  I  '11  go  to  the  One 

above, 
And  say:  "  Old  Roger  is  at  the  gate,  with  his  heart 

brim  full  of  love ; 
And  there  is  n't  a  shining  angel,  of  all  the  heavenly 

band, 
Who  ever  lived  a  nobler  life  than 'he  in  the  earthly 

land." 

Then  I  know  the  gate  will  open,  and  you  will  come 

frisking  in, 
And  we  '11  roam  fair  fields  together,  in  that  country 

free  from  sin. 
So  never  you  mind,  old  Roger,1  if  your  time  has  come 

to  go; 
You've  been  true  to  me,  I '11  be  true  to  you  —  and 

the  Lord  is  good,  we  know. 

You  're  only  a  dog,  old  fellow ;  a  dog,  and  you  've  had 

your  day  — 
Well,  I'm  getting  there  myself,  old  boy,  and  I 

have  n't  long  to  stay; 
But  you've  stood  by  me,  old  Comrade,  and  I'm 

bound  to  stand  by  you; 
So  don't  you  worry,  old  Roger,  for  our  love  will  pull 

us  through. 

Rev.  Julian  S.  Cutler 


TO  JOHN,  MY  COLLIE 

So  you  have  left  me.  Here 's  the  end, 
My  loyal  comrade,  fellow,  friend, 


I38  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

You  've  had  your  day,  as  all  dogs  must, 
Nor  all  your  love  and  faith  and  trust 
Could  keep  you  with  me  —  fellow,  friend, 
You  've  run  your  race  and  here 's  the  end. 

No,  not  the  end !  For  how  shall  I 

Lay  claim  to  immortality, 

If  naught  your  faith  and  love  and  trust 

Availed  to  save  your  soul  from  dust? 

Out  of  your  brown  eyes  looked  at  me 

A  very  soul,  if  souls  there  be, 

And  when  at  Peter's  gate  I  knock, 

And  Peter's  keys  hear  in  the  lock, 

And  hear  not  any  answering  bark, 

I  '11  fare  again  into  the  dark, 

From  star  to  star,  through  God's  wide  space, 

Until  I  find  your  dwelling  place. 

And  when  I  find  you  where  you  dwell, 
Perchance  in  fields  of  asphodel, 
Guarding  white  Elysian  sheep, 
One  eye  shut,  pretending  sleep  — 
But  only  one  —  and  one  ear  cocked, 
And  chin  on  paws  —  though  gate  be  locked 
And  bars  be  high,  no  gates  there  are 
Can  hold  you  back,  nor  any  bar, 
Nor  angel  with  the  flaming  sword, 
When  once  you  hear  your  master's  word. 

Perhaps  they  will  not  want  me  there, 
Perhaps  not  want  you  otherwhere, 
And  so  once  more  our  way  we  '11  wend, 
To  outer  darkness,  friend  and  friend, 


SIR  WALTER'S  FRIEND  139 

Nor  lack  for  any  light,  we  two, 
So  you  have  me  and  I  have  you. 
And  if  perchance  we  lose  our  way, 
Nor  anywhere  can  find  the  day, 
Together  we  will  fall  asleep, 
Together  sink  into  the  deep 
Great  sea  of  nothingness,  we  two, 
You  with  me  and  I  with  you. 

Walter  Peirce 


SIR  WALTER'S  FRIEND 

"  Your  invitation,  sir,  to  dine 

With  you  to-night  I  must  decline 

Because  to-day  I  lost  a  friend  — 

A  friend  long  known  and  loved."  Thus  penned 

The  good  Sir  Walter,  aptly  named 

The  Wizard  of  the  North,  and  famed 

For  truest,  gentlest  heart,  among 

The  homes  that  love  the  English  tongue. 

Great  heart,  that  felt  the  soul  of  things 

In  all  its  high  imaginings, 

And  showed,  'mid  vexing  stress  and  strife 

Of  worldly  cares,  a  hero's  life ! 

An  humble  friend  it  was  he  loved, 

And  oft  together  they  had  roved 

The  heather  hills  and  sweet  brae-side, 

Or  braved  the  rushing  river's  tide; 

And  many  a  frosty  winter  night 

Sat  musing  by  the  warm  firelight  — 

A  faithful  friend,  whom  chance  and  change 

Of  fleeting  years  could  ne'er  estrange. 


140  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

For  he  who  once  has  gained  the  love 

And  friendship  of  a  dog  shall  prove 

Thro'  joy  and  sorrow  to  the  end 

The  deep  devotion  of  a  friend. 

What  is  it?  More  than  instinct  fine, 

This  something  man  cannot  divine, 

Which  speaks  from  eyes  where  lips  are  mute, 

Which  makes  the  creature  we  name  brute 

The  noblest  pattern  we  may  see 

Of  loving,  lasting  loyalty. 

We  dare  not  call  it  mind  or  soul, 

We  know  not  what  or  where  its  goal, 

But  aye  we  know  its  little  span 

Of  life  spells  large:  Friendship  to  man. 

No  wonder  Scott,  in  grief,  should  say, 

"  I  lost  a  much-loved  friend  to-day ! " 

Zitella  Cocke 


LADDIE'S  LONG  SLEEP 

He  wagged  his  tail  to  the  very  last  — 

And  he  smiles  in  his  last,  long  sleep  — 
The  troubles  of  life,  for  him,  are  past, 

In  his  grave,  a  few  feet  deep. 
His  soul  —  for  I  feel  that  he  had  a  soul 

And  he  thought  real  thoughts,  I  know,  — 
Has  found  the  ultimate  end,  life's  goal, 

In  the  heaven  where  good  dogs  go. 

He  has  lived  with  me  and  has  suffered  with  me, 

Shed  tears,  in  his  dog-like  way; 
He  has  placed  his  paw  at  times  on  my  knee, 

In  a  vain  attempt  to  say: 


WITHOUT  ARE  DOGS  141 

"  God  never  gave  us  that  wondrous  power, 

To  tell  all  the  things  we  feel, 
But,  I  want  to  say,  in  my  canine  way, 

That  my  sympathy  is  real." 

So  I  loved  my  dog  to  the  very  end, 

And  he  in  our  daily  walk, 
Was  never  just  dog,  but  a  constant  friend 

And  we  had  no  need  to  talk. 
And  I  hope,  when  the  summons  comes,  for  me 

To  embark  on  the  unknown  tide, 
I  shall  find  his  eyes  in  the  Paradise 

They  say  is  the  Other  Side. 

James  Clarence  Harvey 

"WITHOUT  ARE  DOGS" 

If,  through  some  wondrous  miracle  of  grace, 
To  the  Celestial  City  I  might  win, 
And  find  upon  the  golden  pavement,  place, 
The  gates  of  pearl  within ; 

In  some  sweet  pausing  of  the  immortal  song 
To  which  the  choiring  Seraphim  give  birth, 
Should  I  not  for  that  humbler  greeting  long, 
Known  in  the  dumb  companionships  of  earth? 

Friends  whom  the  softest  whistle  of  my  call 
Brought  to  my  side  in  love  that  knew  no  doubt  — 
Would  I  not  seek  to  cross  the  jasper  wall 
If  haply  I  might  find  you  there  "  without "? 

Edward  A.  Church 


142  SONGS  OF  DOGS 


"  HAMISH  "  —  A  SCOTCH  TERRIER 

Little  lad,  little  lad,  and  who 's  for  an  airing, 

Who  's  for  the  river  and  who 's  for  a  run; 

Four  little  pads  to  go  fitfully  faring, 

Looking  for  trouble  and  calling  it  fun? 

Down  in  the  sedges  the  water-rats  revel, 

Up  in  the  wood  there  are  bunnies  at  play 

With  a  weather-eye  wide  for  a  Little  Black  Devil: 

But  the  Little  Black  Devil  won't  come  to-day. 

To-day  at  the  farm  the  ducks  may,  slumber, 
To-day  may  the  tabbies  an  anthem  raise; 
Rat  and  rabbit  beyond  all  number 
To-day  untroubled  may  go  their  ways : 
To-day  is  an  end  of  the  shepherd's  labour, 
No  more  will  the  sheep  be  hunted  astray; 
And  the  Irish  terrier,  foe  and  neighbour, 
Says,  "  What 's  old  Hamish  about  to-day?  " 

Ay,  what  indeed?  In  the  nether  spaces 
Will  the  soul  of  a  Little  Black  Dog  despair? 
Will  the  Quiet  Folk  scare  him  with  shadow-faces? 
And  how  will  he  tackle  the  Strange  Beasts  there? 
Tail  held  high,  I  '11  warrant,  and  bristling, 
Marching  stoutly  if  sore  afraid, 
Padding  it  steadily,  softly  whistling;  — 
That 's  how  the  Little  Black  Devil  was  made. 

Then  well-a-day  for  a  "  cantie  callant," 
A  heart  of  gold  and  a  soul  of  glee,  — 
Sportsman,  gentleman,  squire  and  gallant,  — 
Teacher,  maybe,  of  you  and  me. 


DEAD  BOY'S  PORTRAIT  AND  HIS  DOG    143 

Spread  the  turf  on  him  light  and  level, 
Grave  him  a  headstone  clear  and  true  — 
"  Here  lies  Hamish,  the  Little  Black  Devil, 
And  half  of  the  heart  of  his  mistress  too." 

C.  Hilton  Brown 


TO  "SCOTT"— A  COLLIE 

Old  friend,  your  place  is  empty  now.  No  more 
Shall  we  obey  the  imperious,  deep-mouthed  call 
That  begged  the  instant  freedom  of  our  hall. 
We  shall  not  trace  your  foot-fall  on  the  floor 
Nor  hear  your  urgent  paws  upon  the  door. 
The  loud-thumped  tail  that  welcomed  one  and 

all, 

The  volleyed  bark  that  nightly  would  appal 
Our  tim'rous  errand  boys  —  these  things  are 

o'er. 

But  always  yours  shall  be  a  household  name, 
And  other  dogs  must  list'  your  storied  fame; 
So  gallant  and  so  courteous,  Scott,  you  were, 
Mighty  abroad,  at  home  most  debonair. 
Now  God  who  made  you  will  not  count  it  blame 
That  we  commend  your  spirit  to  His  care. 

Winifred  M.  Letts 


THE  DEAD  BOY'S  PORTRAIT  AND  HIS  DOG 

Day  after  day  I  have  come  and  sat 
Beseechingly  upon  the  mat, 
Wistfully  wondering  where  you  are  at. 


144  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Why  have  they  placed  you  on  the  wall, 
So  deathly  still,  so  strangely  tall? 
You  do  not  turn  from  me,  nor  call. 

Why  do  I  never  hear  my  name? 
Why  are  you  fastened  in  a  frame? 
You  are  the  same,  and  not  the  same. 

Away  from  me  why  do  you  stare 
So  far  out  in  the  distance  where 
I  am  not?  I  am  here,  not  there ! 

What  has  your  little  doggie  done? 
You  used  to  whistle  me  to  run 
Beside  you  or  ahead,  for  fun ! 

You  used  to  pat  me,  and  a  glow 

Of  pleasure  through  my  life  would  go ! 

How  is  it  that  I  shiver  so? 

My  tail  was  once  a  waving  flag 
Of  welcome.  Now  I  cannot  wag 
It  for  the  weight  I  have  to  drag. 

I  know  not  what  has  come  to  me. 
'T  is  only  in  my  sleep  I  see 
Things  smiling  as  they  used  to  be. 

I  do  not  dare  to  bark;  I  plead 
But  dumbly,  and  you  never  heed; 
Nor  my  protection  seem  to  need. 


FAITHFUL  FOLLOWER,  GENTLE  FRIEND   145 

I  watch  the  door,  I  watch  the  gate ; 
I  am  watching  early,  watching  late, 
Your  doggie  still !  —  I  watch  and  wait. 

Gerald  Massey 


FAITHFUL  FOLLOWER,  GENTLE  FRIEND 

My  merry-hearted  comrade  on  a  day 
Gave  over  all  his  mirth,  and  went  away 
Upon  the  darksome  journey  I  must  face 
Sometime  as  well.  Each  hour  I  miss  his  grace, 
His  meek  obedience  and  his  constancy. 
Never  again  will  he  look  up  to  me 
With  loyal  eyes,  nor  leap  for  my  caress 
As  one  who  wished  not  to  be  masterless; 
And  never  shall  I  hear  his  pleading  bark 
Outside  the  door  when  all  the  ways  grow  dark, 
Bidding  the  house-folk  gather  close  inside. 
It  seems  a  cruel  thing,  since  he  has  died, 
To  make  his  memory  small,  or  deem  it  sin 
To  reckon  such  a  mate  as  less  than  kin. 

O  faithful  follower,  O  gentle  friend, 
If  thou  art  missing  at  the  journey's  end  — 
Whatever  of  joy  or  solace  there  I.  find 
Unshared  by  thee  I  left  so  far  behind, 
The  gladness  will  be  mixed  with  tears,  I  trow  — 
My  little  crony  of  the  long  ago ! 
For  how  could  heaven  be  home-like,  with  the  door 
Fast-locked  against  a  loved  one  evermore? 

Richard  Burton 


146  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

THE  TEAR  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

When  some  dear  human  friend  to  death  doth  bow, 

Fair  blooming  flowers  are  strewn  upon  the  bier, 

And  haply,  in  the  silent  house,  we  hear 

The  last  wild  kiss  ring  on  the  marble  brow, 

And  lips  that  never  missed  reply  till  now; 

And  thou,  poor  dog,  wert  in  thy  measure  dear  — 

And  so  I  owe  thee  honor,  and  the  tear 

Of  friendship,  and  would  all  thy  worth  allow. 

In  a  false  world  thy  heart  was  brave  and  sound; 

So,  when  my  spade  carved  out  thy  latest  lair, 

A  spot  to  rest  thee  on  I  sought  and  found  — 

It  was  a  tuft  of  primrose,  fresh  and  fair, 

And,  as  it  was  thy  last  hour  above  ground, 

I  laid  thy  sightless  head  full  gently  there. 

"  I  cannot  think  thine  all  is  buried  here," 
I  said,  and  sigh'd,  —  the  wind  awoke  and  blew 
The  morning  beam  along  the  gossamer 
That  floated  o'er  thy  grave  all  wet  with  dew. 
A  hint  of  better  things,  however  slight, 
Will  feed  a  loving  heart;  it  soothed  my  woe 
To  watch  that  little  shaft  of  heavenly  light 
Pass  o'er  thee,  moving  gently  to  and  fro. 
Within  our  Father's  heart  the  secret  lies 
Of  this  dim  world;  why  should  we,  only,  live, 
And  what  was  I  that  I  should  close  my  eyes 
On  all  those  rich  presumptions,  that  reprieve 
The  meanest  life  from  dust  and  ashes?  Lo ! 
How  much,  on  such  dark  ground,  a  gleaming  thread 
can  do ! 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner 


BOATSWAIN'S  MONUMENT  147 


LAD'S  EPITAPH 


LAD 

Thoroughbred  in  Body  and  Soul 


Some  people  are  wise  enough  to  know  that  a  dog 
has  no  soul.  These  will  find  ample  theme  for 
mirth  in  our  foolish  inscription.  But  no  one  who 
knew  Lad  will  laugh  at  it. 

Albert  Payson  Terhune 

^  "  BOATSWAIN'S  "  MONUMENT 

This  monument  is  still  a  conspicuous  ornament  in  the 
garden  of  Newstead  Abbey.  The  following  is  the  inscrip- 
tion by  which  the  verses  are  preceded: 

Near  this  spot 
Are  deposited  the  Remains 

of  one 
Who  possessed  Beauty 

Without  Vanity, 

Strength  without  Insolence, 

Courage  without  Ferocity, 

And  all  the  Virtues  of  Man 

Without  his  Vices. 

This  Praise,  which  would  be  unmeaning  flattery 

If  inscribed  over  Human  Ashes, 
Is  but  a  just  tribute  to  the  Memory  of 

"  Boatswain,"  a  Dog 
Who  was  born  at  Newfoundland, 

May,  1803, 

And  died  at  Newstead  Abbey 
Nov.  18,  1808. 


148  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

When  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth, 
Unknown  to  glory,  but  upheld  by  birth, 
The  sculptor's  art  exhausts  the  pomp  of  woe, 
And  storied  urns  record  who  rests  below. 
When  all  is  done,  upon  the  tomb  is  seen, 
Not  what  he  was,  but  what  he  should  have  been. 
But  the  poor  dog,  in  life  the  firmest  friend, 
The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  defend, 
Whose  honest  heart  is  still  his  master's  own, 
Who  labors,  fights,  lives,  breathes  for  him  alone, 
Unhonored  falls,  unnoticed  all  his  worth, 
Denied  in  heaven  the  soul  he  held  on  earth  — 
While  man,  vain  insect!  hopes  to  be  forgiven, 
And  claims  himself  a  sole  exclusive  heaven. 

Oh  man !  thou  feeble  tenant  of  an  hour, 
Debased  by  slavery,  or  corrupt  by  power  — 
Who  knows  thee  well  must  quit  thee  with  disgust, 
Degraded  mass  of  animated  dust! 
Thy  love  is  lust,  thy  friendship  all  a  cheat, 
Thy  smiles  hypocrisy,  thy  words  deceit! 
By  nature  vile,  ennobled  but  by  name, 
Each  kindred  brute  might  bid  thee  blush  for  shame. 
Ye!  who  perchance  behold  this  simple  urn, 
Pass  on  —  it  honors  none  you  wish  to  mourn. 
To  mark  a  friend's  remains  these  stones  arise; 
I  never  knew  but  one  —  and  here  he  lies. 

Byron 

"FRANCES" 

You  were  a  dog,  Frances,  a  dog, 
And  I  was  just  a  man. 
The  Universal  Plan,  — 


FRANCES  149 


Well,  't  would  have  lacked  something 

Had  it  lacked  you. 

Somehow  you  fitted  in  like  a  far  star 

Where  the  vast  spaces  are; 

Or  like  a  grass-blade 

Which  helps  the  meadow 

To  be  a  meadow; 

Or  like  a  song  which  kills  a  sigh 

And  sings  itself  on  and  on 

Till  all  the  world  is  full  of  it. 

You  were  the  real  thing,  Frances,  a  soul! 

Encarcassed,  yes,  but  still  a  soul 

With  feeling  and  regard  and  capable  of  woe. 

Oh  yes  I  know,  you  were  a  dog,  but  I  was 

just  a  man. 

I  did  not  buy  you,  no,  you  simply  came, 
Lost,  and  squatted  on  my  door-step 
With  that  wide  strap  about  your  neck,  — 
A  worn  one  with  a  huge  buckle. 
When  bigger  dogs  pitched  onto  you 
You  stood  your  ground  and  gave  them  all 

you  had 
And  took  your  wounds  unwhimpering,  but 

hid  them. 

My,  but  you  were  game ! 
You  were  fine-haired 
And  marked  with  Princeton  colors, 
Black  and  deep  yellow. 
No  other  fellow 
Could  make  you  follow  him, 
For  you  had  chosen  me  to  be  your  pal. 
My  whistle  was  your  law. 
You  put  your  paw 


ISO  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Upon  my  palm 

And  in  your  calm, 

Deep  eyes  was  writ 

The  promise  of  long  comradeship. 

When  I  came  home  from  work, 

Late  and  ill-tempered, 

Always  I  heard  the  patter  of  your  feet  upon  the 

oaken  stairs; 

Your  nose  was  at  the  door-crack; 
And  whether  I  'd  been  bad  or  good  that  day 
You  fawned,  and  loved  me  just  the  same. 
It  was  your  way  to  understand ; 
And  if  I  struck  you,  my  harsh  hand 
Was  wet  with  your  caresses. 
You  took  my  leavings,  crumb  and  bone, 
And  stuck  by  me  through  thick  and  thin. 
You  were  my  kin. 
And  then  one  day  you  died, 
At  least  that 's  what  they  said. 
There  was  a  box  and 
You  were  in  it,  still, 

With  a  sprig  of  myrtle  and  your  leash  and  blanket, 
And  put  deep; 

But  though  you  sleep  and  ever  sleep 
I  sense  you  at  my  heels ! 

Richard  Wight  man 

"  THE  DOG  WHO  LOVED  YOU  SO " 

The  noblest,  truest  friend  I  had, 

The  friend  so  staunch  and  leal, 

Whose  love  wrought  of  my  sometime  slights 

The  very  hooks  of  steel, 


THE  DOG  WHO  LOVED  YOU  SO      151 

Which  grappled  me  unto  her  heart 
And  held  me  there  alway  — 
The  friend  who  never  flinched  nor  failed, 
Was  buried  yesterday. 

And  now  to-day  I  sit  apart, 

In  musing  sad  and  deep, 

And  wonder  where  my  friend  has  gone, 

What  friendship  she  may  keep ; 

For  her  could  be  no  future  woe, 

But  in  a  larger  weal, 

A  fuller  life  awaiting  her 

That  earth  could  not  reveal. 

She  lived,  she  felt,  she  thought,  she  loved  — 

Can  He  who  did  bestow 

That  power  of  thought,  that  wealth  of  love, 

His  wondrous  work  forego? 

Or  shall  the  heart  that  beats  so  true 

To  God's  own  image  here, 

Know  naught  of  a  Creator's  love 

In  a  diviner  sphere? 

We  may  not  speak  beyond  our  ken 

How  e'er  our  thoughts  may  rove  — 

But  my  own  soul  has  richer  grown 

Because  of  this  friend's  love. 

And  it  may  be,  sometime,  somewhere, 

Some  being  I  shall  know 

Who  gives  me  welcome:  "  Friend,  I  was 

The  dog  who  loved  you  so." 

Zitella  Cocke 


152  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

THE  VICAR'S  TRIBUTE 

"PLUM-PUDDING'S"  EPITAPH 

"  Pudding ! "  companion  of  my  parish  round, 

Content  to  walk  to  heel  or  patient  wait, 
Eager  to  follow,  and  yet  always  found 

Watching  attentive  at  the  sick  man's  gate : 
Thy  task  is  done,  and  through  the  busy  mart, 

The  idler  sees  thee  thread  thy  way  no  more, 
But  I,  who  know  thy  faithful,  loving  heart, 
Expect  to  meet  thee  at  the  Heavenly  door. 
George  Arbuthnot 

Vicar  of  Trinity  Church 
Stratford-on-Avon 

HIS  VANISHED  MASTER 

Past  happiness  dissolves.  It  fades  away, 

Ghost-like,  in  that  dim  attic  of  the  mind, 

To  which  the  dreams  of  childhood  are  consigned. 

Here,  withered  garlands  hang  in  slow  decay, 

And  trophies  glimmer  in  the  dying  ray 

Of  stars  that  once  with  heavenly  glory  shined. 

But  you  old  friend,  are  you  still  left  behind 

To  tell  the  nearness  of  life's  yesterday  ? 

Ah,  boon  companion  of  my  vanished  boy, 

For  you  he  lives;  in  every  sylvan  walk 

He  waits;  and  you  expect  him  everywhere. 

How  would  you  stir,  what  cries,  what  bounds  of  joy, 

If  but  his  voice  were  heard  in  casual  talk, 

If  but  his  footstep  sounded  on  the  stair ! 

John  Jay  Chapman 


LONELY  I  GO  FARING  153 

"LONELY  I  GO  FARING" 

Oh,  friend,  ten  years  did  you  and  I 

Travel  so  blithe  together; 
Under  the  blue  and  starry  sky, 

In  grey  and  golden  weather. 

But  now  that  Spring  begins  to  stir, 
You  sleep  with  grasses  o'er  you. 

Oh,  my  small  fellow-traveller, 
I  am  so  lonely  for  you! 

It  is  not  the  same  world,  you  know, 
Wanting  your  face,  asthoreen; 

And  tears  are  with  me  as  I  go 
By  grassy  land  and  boreen. 

Your  little  ragged  face  I  need, 

Your  lifted  eyes'  devotion; 
That  faithful  heart  of  yours,  indeed, 

It  was  Love's  very  ocean. 

I  want  the  four  small  pads  that  went 
Beside  me,  night  and  morning. 

Ochone !  the  pleasant  days  are  spent, 
And  there  is  no  returning. 

For,  though  my  heart  may  cry  and  call, 

At  last  you  lie  uncaring; 
You  keep  your  narrow  house  and  small, 

While  lonely  I  go  faring. 

Anonymous 


154  SONGS  OF  DOGS 


RANGER'S  GRAVE 

He 's  dead  and  gone !  He 's  dead  and  gone ! 
And  the  lime-tree  branches  wave, 
And  the  daisy  blows, 
And  the  green  grass  grows, 
Upon  his  grave. 

He's  dead  and  gone!  He's  dead  and  gone! 
And  he  sleeps  by  the  flowering  lime, 
Where  he  loved  to  lie, 
When  the  sun  was  high, 
In  summer  time. 

We  've  laid  him  there,  for  I  could  not  bear 
His  poor  old  bones  to  hide 
In  some  dark  hole, 
Where  rat  and  mole 
And  blind-worms  bide. 

We  've  laid  him  there,  where  the  blessed  air 
Disports  with  the  lovely  light 
And  raineth  showers 
Of  those  sweet  flowers 
So  silver  white; 

Where  the  blackbird  sings,  and  the  wild  bee's  wings 
Make  music  all  day  long, 
And  the  cricket  at  night 
(A  dusky  sprite!) 
Takes  up  the  song. 

He  loved  to  lie  where  his  wakeful  eye 
Could  keep  me  still  in  sight  — 


TO  SIGURD  155 


Whence  a  word  or  a  sign 
Or  look  of  mine 
Brought  him  like  light. 

No  word  nor  sign,  nor  look  of  mine, 
From  under  the  lime-tree  bough, 
With  bark  and  bound, 
And  frolic  round, 
Shall  bring  him  now. 

But  he  taketh  his  rest  where  he  loved  best 
In  the  days  of  his  life  to  be, 
And  that  place  will  not 
Be  a  common  spot 
Of  earth  to  me. 

Caroline  Bowles  Southey 

TO  SIGURD 

Not  one  blithe  leap  of  welcome?  Can  you  lie 

Under  this  woodland  mold, 

More  still 

Than  broken  daffodil, 

When  I, 

Home  from  too  long  a  roving, 

Come  up  the  silent  hill? 

Dear,  wistful  eyes, 

White  ruff  and  windy  gold 

Of  collie  coat  so  oft  caressed, 

Not  one  quick  thrill 

In  snowy  breast, 

One  spring  of  jubilant  surprise, 

One  ecstasy  of  loving? 


156  SONGS  OF  DOGS 

Are  all  pur  frolics  ended?  Never  more 

Those  royal  romps  of  old, 

When  one, 

Playfellow  of  the  sun, 

Would  pour 

Adventures  and  romances 

Into  a  morning  run; 

Off  and  away, 

A  flying  glint  of  gold, 

Startling  to  wing  a  husky  choir 

Of  crows  whose  dun 

Shadows  would  tire 

Even  that  v/ild  speed?  Unscared  to-day 

They  hold  their  weird  seances. 

Ever  you  dreamed,  legs  twitching,  you 

would  catch 
A  crow,  O  leaper  bold, 
Next  time,  — 

Or  chase  to  branch  sublime 
That  batch 

Of  squirrels  daring  capture 
In  saucy  pantomime; 
Till  one  spring  dawn, 
Resting  amid  the  gold 
Of  crocuses,  Death  stole  on  you 
From  that  far  clime 
Where  dreams  come  true, 
And  left  upon  the  starry  lawn 
Your  form  without  your  rapture. 

And  was  Death's  whistle  then  so  wondrous 

/  sweet 
Across  the  glimmering  wold 


TO  SIGURD  157 


That  you 

Would  trustfully  pursue 

Strange  feet? 

When  I  was  gone,  each  morrow 

You  sought  our  old  haunts  through, 

Slower  to  play, 

Drooping  in  faded  gold. 

Now  it  is  mine  to  grieve  and  miss 

My  comrade  true, 

Who  used  to  kiss 

With  eager  tongue  such  tears  away, 

Coaxing  a  smile  from  sorrow. 

I  know  not  what  life  is,  nor  what  is  death, 

Nor  how  vast  Heaven  may  hold 

All  this 

Earth-beauty  and  earth-bliss. 

Christ  saith 

That  not  a  sparrow  falleth 

—  O  songs  of  sparrow  faith !  — 

But  Ged  is  there. 

May  not  a  leap  of  gold 

Yet  greet  me  on  some  gladder  hill, 

A  shining  wraith, 

Rejoicing  still, 

As  in  those  hours  we  found  so  fair, 

To  follow  where  love  calleth? 

Katharine  Lee  Bates 


FINIS 


INDEXES 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Abandonment 58 

Ave  Caesar „ 45 

Bath,  The 87 

Behind  the  Muzzle 98 

Bess 54 

Best  Dog,  The 21 

Bloodhound,  The 65 

"Boatswain's"  Monument 147 

Bran  and  the  Bloody  Tree 9 

Bull  Terrier,  My 84 

Chance 51 

Charity's  Eye 48 

Cluny 134 

Curate  thinks  you  have  no  Soul,  The 130 

Dachshound,  To  a       120 

Dandie  Dinmonts 12 

Davy 128 

Dead  Boy's  Portrait  and  his  Dog,  The 143 

Dog  who  Loved  you  so,  The «.  150 

Dog-grel  Verses,  by  a  Poor  Blind 104 

Dog-Star  Pup,  The 81 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog 97 

End  of  the  Season,  The 24 

Epitaph  —  1792,  An 115 

Eulogy  on  the  Dog 2 


162  INDEX  OF  TITLES 

Faithful  Follower,  Gentle  Friend       145 

Fidele's  Grassy  Tomb 4 

Flush,  To       59 

Fox  Terrier,  My 41 

Frances 148 

Frenchie    . 73 

Geisf  s  Grave 132 

Gentleman,  A 23 

Good  Dogs 80 

"  Hamish  "  —  a  Scotch  Terrier 142 

He  >s  just  a  Dog 7 

His  Code  of  Honor 68 

His  Good  Points 114 

His  Vanished  Master 152 

Horse,  Dog,  and  Man 102 

I  had  a  Dog 109 

I  've  got  a  Dog 91 

In  the  Mansion  Yard       127 

Irish  Wolf -Hound,  The 13 

John,  My  Collie,  To 137 

John  Peel 26 

Joy  of  Pedigree,  The        118 

Just  Our  Dog 92 

Just  Plain  Yellow 47 

Laddie 130 

Laddie's  Long  Sleep 140 

Lad's  Epitaph 147 

Laugh  in  Church,  The 88 

Little  Deaf  Dog,  To  a 42 

Little  Lost  Pup 96 

Lonely  I  go  Faring 153 

Lost  Trail,  The        125 

Luath 51 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  163 

Memories 124 

Mushers,  The 10 

Music  of  the  Hounds,  The        25 

My  Bull  Terrier 84 

My  Dog  and  I 27 

My  Dog  Blanco,  To 3 

My  Fox  Terrier 41 

My  Setter,  Scout,  To       43 

Ode  on  the  Dog 94 

Old  Dog  Tray 49 

Old  Prospector's  Dog,  The       33 

Old  Sheep  Wagon,  The 50 

Ould  Hound,  The 108 

Outcast,  The 15 

Petronius 21 

"Plum-Pudding's"  Epitaph 152 

Power  of  the  Dog,  The 70 

Puppy,  To  a 115 

Ragged  Rover 32 

Ranger's  Grave 154 

Remarks  to  My  Grown-up  Pup 99 

Reproach,  The 14 

Rhapsody  on  a  Dog's  Intelligence 86 

Road  to  Vagabondia,  The 28 

Roger  and  I 135 

Royalty 59 

Rufus  —  a  Spaniel,  To    ....    t 63 

Scholar's  Dog,  The 113 

"  Scott "  —  a  Collie,  To       143 

Sheep -Herding 56 

Sigurd,  To 155 

Sir  Bat -Ears       16 

Sir  Walter's  Friend 139 

Six  Feet  .    .    .    .     18 


1 64  INDEX  OF  TITLES 

Tear  of  Friendship,  The       146 

Tim,  an  Irish  Terrier       112 

Tim  —  an  Irish  Terrier,  To 67 

To  a  Dachshound 120 

To  a  Little  Deaf  Dog       42 

To  a  Puppy 115 

To  Flush 59 

To  John,  My  Collie 137 

To  My  Dog  Blanco 3 

To  My  Setter,  Scout 43 

To  Rufus  —  a  Spaniel 63 

To  "  Scott  "  —  a  Collie 143 

To  Sigurd 155 

To  Tim  —  an  Irish  Terrier 67 

To  Towser 116 

Told  to  the  Missionary 37 

Towser,  To 116 

Tragedy 115 

Tray 57 

Twa  Dogs,  The       51 

Unfailing  One,  The 20 

Vagabonds,  The 30 

Vicar's  Tribute,  The 152 

Vigi 71 

Walking  a  Puppy 101 

War  Dog,  The 74 

Watch        33 

We  meet  at  Morn 19 

Why  the  Dog's  Nose  is  Cold 90 

"Without  are  Dogs" 141 

You  're  a  Dog 9 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Alger,  William  Rounseville 48 

Anderson,  Joseph  M 7 

Andrews,  Mark 26 

Arbuthnot,  George 152 

Arnold,  Matthew 132 

Bates,  Katharine  Lee 71,  130,  155 

Baudelaire,  Pierre  Charles        80 

Blethen,  Joseph 10 

Bretherton,  Cyril 116 

Brown,  C.  Hilton 142 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett 59 

Browning,  Robert , 57 

Buckham,  James 25 

Burnet,  Dana 28 

Burns,  Robert 51 

Burton,  Richard 145 

Byron,  Lord        147 

Chapman,  Arthur 50 

Chapman,  John  Jay 152 

Church,  Edward  A 141 

Cleator,  Alice  J 27 

Cocke,  Zitella          68,  139,  150 

Cornwall,  Barry 65 

Cowper,  William 115 

Cutler,  Julian  S 135 

De  Foe,  Ethellyn  Brewer 42 

Doane,  William  Croswell 134 


166  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

Eden,  Mrs.  Parry .     .     16 

Eytinge,  Margaret       90 

Foster,  Stephen  Collins 49 

Galsworthy,  John 58,124 

Oilman,  C.  L 9 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 97 

Griffith,  William 14 

Guiney,  Louise  Imogen 128 

Hall,  Sharlot  M .    .  33,  56 

Harvey,  James  Clarence 140 

Holland,  Josiah  Gilbert 3 

Hood,  Thomas 104 

Hopkins,  E.  T 120 

Johns,  Orrick 54,  59 

Johnson,  Burges 86,  99 

Jones,  Wex 84 

Kelley,  Ethel  M 91 

Kipling,  Rudyard 70 

Kiser,  S.  E 102 

Knibbs,  Henry  Herbert 15,51,81,125 

Ladd,  Frederic  P 21 

Lamed,  W.  Livingston 98,  114,  118 

Lehmann,  R.  C 45,  63,  87 

Letts,  Winifred  M 67,  112,  143 

Lucas,  St.  John       130 

McCarthy,  Denis  Florence 13 

McCarthy,  Frank  C 73 

Manchester,  Leslie  Clare 32 

Marston,  John 113 

Massey,  Gerald 143 

Middlemas,  Anna  Hadley 47 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  167 

Newbolt,  Henry 4 

O.  R 9,  109 

Ogilvie,  Will  H 12,  101 

Peabody,  Josephine  Preston 20,  94 

Peirce,  Walter 137 

Peple,  Edward  Henry ,    74 

Pollock,  Lewette  Beauchamp    ..    ,     .     .    .    ,    -115 
Procter,  Bryan  Waller „    .    .    65 

R-i  0 9,  109 

Rawnsley,  Hardwicke  Drummond 19 

Selden,  Frank  H 43 

Sims,  George  R 37 

Southey,  Caroline  Bowles 154 

Stringer,  Arthur 108 

Terhune,  Albert  Payson       147 

Tinckom-Fernandez,  W.  G 24 

Trowbridge,  J.  T 30 

Turner,  Charles  Tennyson 146 

Vest,  George  Graham 2 

Wightman,  Richard 148 

Woods,  William  Hervey 127 


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